


The Assimilation of Mr. Fox

by KogoDogo



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Comedy, Frenemies, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Personal Growth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2020-07-20 00:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 47,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KogoDogo/pseuds/KogoDogo
Summary: What's worse than botching a brain surgery on a tyrant worshiped by bloodthirsty tribals? Realizing that the replacement is ten times worse. Fortunately for Arcade, he was formally selected to be used as a human shield by Legate Lanius' most bitter opponent during a daring escape attempt. Unfortunately, that "bitter opponent" is Vulpes Inculta, and now Arcade is stuck with him on a long, exhausting trip across the Mojave.





	1. Prologue (Arcade)

Luck was not Arcade’s strongest attribute. As he’d learned in his nearly forty years of life, if something _could_ go wrong, it likely would. That was just how fate decided to dish it out to him, from having him be born to an Enclave family in the middle of Navarro, to having him wind up in the middle of the desert while sporting the sort of Celtic pale that confused “tanning” with “third degree burns.” He’d thought that maybe life would have started improving once he met a strong, handsome, and exceedingly homosexual mailman with a gunshot scar and a sparkling smile, but the only place that charlatan had whisked him was east.

Across the Colorado River.

Into enemy territory.

It wasn’t even one of those things where everything “happened so fast” either, nor was he thinking with his dick. Arcade was typically good about listening to the right head. No, all he had to be told was that somebody had sent out a distress signal near a Legion camp and he’d willingly followed his handsome courier right into the strong, angry arms of trouble. A part of him was disappointed to see his supposed friend grin as he accepted a surprisingly small bag of caps for the exchange, but the other part figured that he should have expected it. After all, nothing good ever happened to him.

He supposed there were silver linings. In the few days since he’d be stripped of his name and strapped with a bomb collar, nobody had really _expected_ anything of him. No, they just spoke threateningly about the fact that the glorious, oh-so-holy leader of the Legion was ill, that they had been promised he knew how to do brain surgery, and that he’d be expected to perform a miracle. Soon. And, you know, _sure_ , he was under constant surveillance, but at least the guards assigned to make sure he didn’t kill himself were easy on the eyes. They were works of art, every last one; beautiful, savage, xenophobic, terrifying, prejudiced, rapist Adonises cast in bronze. 

Arcade stood quietly in the darkest corner of Caesar’s tent, watching as said Adonises danced around a table like savage, hungry ballerinas. Slaves weaved between their hulking forms with redware platters of roasts and sliced fruit, begging forgiveness whenever one of their keepers recklessly bumped against them. Fortunately, spirits were high and the mood was rather forgiving, considering Caesar was celebrating what they assumed would be a victory at the Dam. Not that it was coming anytime soon--Arcade had sat through two of these feasts since he was sold into servitude--but if he’d learned any surprising fact about the Legion, it was that their upper echelons _loved_ a good party.

Maybe there was a bit of Roman in them after all.

Of course, they said it was part of a festival, some great religious rite where they appealed to Mars for guidance and strength in battle, and to Asclepius (whose name they butchered pretty frequently) for Arcade to miraculously heal the tyrant sitting front-and-center at the dining table. Said tyrant looked pretty jovial if you looked past the glazed, confused look in his eyes and the exquisite, corpse-like pallor. The fact he still had an ounce of joy left in him made Arcade’s stomach twist in anger. When he’d look up and smile at him--a wicked, twisted, knowing smile with a hint of threat behind it--Arcade couldn’t help but throw up a little bit in his mouth.

Prickly-pear wine sloshed out of glasses. Expertly trained dogs lapped up spilled beverages and food off of the floor like they’d never been taught to obey. A couple of obvious prostitutes, dressed in the finest clothing the Legion would allow, flitted from man to man with forced giggles and sad eyes, trying to pretend they were in a paradise where it was a privilege to be surrounded by a bunch of dangerously brainwashed men.

Arcade sighed. A couple of the slaves looked at him in disgust, partially because he was exempt from working and partially because they believed this celebration was entirely his fault. He wished he had something to say to them that would have made them hate him a little less, but honestly? They had a point, even if they neglected to realize the colossal responsibility hoisted on his shoulders and the very, _very_ slim chance of his success.

“Don’t mind them.”

A voice sounded next to him, cold and even, and Arcade nearly leapt out of his skin. Only nearly, though, because the bomb collar strapped around his throat made even his flight-or-fight response think twice. Nervously, he jerked towards the origin of the sound and furrowed his brows at the sight of an uncomfortably familiar stranger that he had, unfortunately, become accustomed to seeing floating around Caesar’s presence. Arcade scowled but didn’t respond. Sticking his foot in his mouth was the last thing he needed to do when surrounded by murderers.

Especially when the offender was the worst of them all. Even before Arcade had been swindled, he’d heard tales of Vulpes Inculta, the daring and vicious spy that sacrificed his own men by the droves if it meant slaughtering some enemy soldiers. Even with his name known by the NCR and his likeness slapped on wanted signs and propaganda posters like he was a celebrity, nobody had ever managed to get their hands on him. He was just that good, that intelligent, and that driven to kill.

He wasn’t hard to look at, though, if you managed to overlook the soulless, pale-blue eyes that seemed to suck all the hope out of a room. It was a neat trick. Not many people were so creepy and inhuman that they developed the abilities of a goddamned super villain.

“They are jealous. They’re always jealous whenever Caesar gets a new personal servant.”

For a good, long time, Arcade said nothing. He didn’t think it was appropriate to be speaking to a guy who, from his observations, was so far up the Legion food chain that Caesar would probably go get drinks with him on weekends. It wasn’t until he felt those icy eyes burrowing into the side of his head that he realized that Vulpes was expecting a response, even in the form of a nod.

But Arcade, being Arcade, could never really get by with just a nod.

“Caesar has a lot of servants, then?”

“ _Had_.”

The word made Arcade’s stomach drop and, like he sensed the discomfort, Vulpes continued to talk. Arcade wondered what sick satisfaction he was getting out of the conversation.

“Some were executed,” the legionnaire sighed, “and some were given to Lanius as gifts. The attractive ones, mostly. And do you know why?”

A terrified lump began to miraculously appear in Arcade’s throat. Sweat beaded at his brow. Vulpes was an intense person, and an expert at intimidation.

“Wh, ah, wh-wh-why?”

Vulpes shrugged and said no more. There was a moment of awkward, tense silence between the two before a couple of revelers came over to grab at Vulpes and urge him to join their rowdy feast. Scrunching his nose and shaking his head, he pulled away and vanished as quickly as he appeared, striding confidently and stiffly away from the crowd and out of the tent entirely. His departure was met with jeers and taunts in Latin that were so badly butchered that Arcade couldn’t make sense of what they were saying.

And Arcade stood, silently, in that dark corner as they celebrated and mocked and whooped and hollered. He endured the glares of the other slaves who grimaced every time they stepped in his shadow. He pulled gingerly at his bomb collar and tried to figure out what exactly the purpose of that conversation had been. Was it intimidation? Concern?

It was then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Caesar, dressed in faux-laurels and patchwork centurion armor, flanked by men much younger and more capable, was still glassy-eyed at the table. His eyes moved, his mouth would twitch in a smile, but the more Arcade looked, the less sinister he appeared.

The knowing was gone. There was confusion in his expression. He laughed, but he didn’t mean it. With every second that ticked by, it became more and more obvious.

Caesar had forgotten where he was.


	2. ACTUAL Chapter 1

Time halted.

In the center of the room stood the slave. Every muscle in the soft man trembled as he loomed over the corpse of their master, as pale as a specter and splattered in flecks of red that crept up his sleeves like an infection. He held his breath in terror and anticipation, his glasses fogged and smeared with blood as silent curses fell from lips and clattered along the dusty earth beside a scalpel that shook clean from his fingers.

It was a long time before anyone found the nerve to talk. Silence engulfed them like a hungry monster, swallowing them whole. One of the younger of Caesar’s praetorian guard sank to his knees in horror and grief while another showed his weakness in a fountain of bile. The aged dog that led them began to bark furiously at the gods, a string of threats with no clear target in a language that the slave unfortunately seemed versed in. Only when the realization dawned on him did he turn his abuse towards their captive, eyes blazing with a fire typically reserved for war.

Between them lay Caesar, lifeless and cold, his skull cut open and his once brilliant mind reduced to a puddle of wrinkled gray. Even as his former quarters devolved into chaos--glass shattering and books flying like awkward birds into the canvas walls--his gaze remained locked on the sky, his face displaying a sort of serenity that the world now seemed to lack. The slave squawked an unintelligible cry as he backed into a corner, surgical tray spilling across the ground and his final patient jiggling like brahmin fat when his hip bumped the corner of the table. 

Caesar’s head lolled to the side, eyes ever forward. Vulpes’ stomach twisted into knots.

Across from him, the slave sputtered excuses and apologies with a stammer that made him almost indecipherable. He claimed that he hadn’t meant to, that he had tried to explain that the tumor was inoperable before the cutting even began. The mass was too far advanced and too precariously placed and, even if it could have been carved from their lord’s skull, it would have taken one with skill that simply did not exist within the Mojave. The courier who had sold him to them had neglected to mention that he mostly dealt in pediatrics and botanical research, that the surgery he performed at gunpoint was essentially a shot in the dark. He had told them that beforehand, he said, but the Legion had persisted despite the fact he’d do more harm than good.

Please, he didn’t mean for Caesar to die. Please, he had no motive to botch the operation. To do so would be suicide, so he had tried his damnedest.

Over top of his lamentations, Lucius and his praetorians howled in anguish and hatred, a rabid pack of coyotes baying at the dying sun. Vulpes remained silent, standing motionless and stiff at the entrance to Caesar’s quarters as the scene slowly transformed into a riot. There were no words to explain the coldness in his gut or the pain in his heart, the dread that crept up his spine and wrapped its tendrils around his ribs. Vomit rose in his throat and his brain flared to life in an explosion of thoughts and fears that shrieked like the furies themselves. 

It was all unfamiliar and distracting. He struggled in vain to sort the voices in his head out, but the raucousness around him reset his thoughts with every wailing curse, every furious threat. Vulpes swallowed hard.

Caesar was dead and Lanius would succeed him. Lanius detested the men of the Legion and, above all others, Vulpes himself. 

Lucius was yelling and it was impossible to think. 

Vulpes would no longer be safe in the warm embrace of the Legion, and would instead be as trapped as the slave in the corner. The man’s eyes looked so hopeless and dim, recognizing his doom just as the people of Nipton had, his men at Boulder City, his tribe at the Utah. 

He wished Lucius would stop yelling. 

Lanius was coming to take Caesar’s mantle and Vulpes would be cornered like a dog. The crucifixion he dodged in his younger years now dangled in front of his eyes like a waiting noose. He was a captive in his own lands, a slave to the murderous whims of his would-be master.

He desperately needed Lucius to stop yelling. 

Adrenaline pulsed through his veins more readily than blood. He struggled, hands shaking, to find anything to focus his attention on. Across the tent, huddling with guardsmen closing in on him like a pack of deathclaws, was the slave, the crux of the problem, the man who had instigated all this madness.

He was a gentleman that Vulpes had seen before in the destroyed streets of Freeside while doing reconnaissance in New Vegas, an educated man of medicine who sought to help the profligates survive the horrors of the waste. He had heard the Goodsprings courier refer to him occasionally as Dr. Gannon, though the legionnaires had stripped him of his name, his title, and his dignity as soon as the same courier dropped him into their lap for a hefty sum. They successfully erased a storied history of delivering children to chem-addled mothers and administering vaccines for hours a day, all things that Caesar had spat were vain efforts to keep the weak and dissolute alive. Yet, in his hour of need, what prize had he set his eyes on?

Vulpes snapped his head side to side in an attempt to shake out the treasonous thoughts blossoming in his mind. When he lifted his gaze, his eyes locked with those of the slave as the poor man peered helplessly over his glasses, slick with sweat and red. His innards squirmed with panic and anger, and an uncomfortable shiver spread across his shoulders like an electric current. Yet, oddly enough, his anger was not with the slave.

The captive had not done it on purpose. Even Vulpes had recognized the chances of success had been abysmally low, although he had prayed that Mars would find a way. None of this was supposed to have happened. Even the slave hadn’t wanted it to happen.

The sudden surge of empathy was foreign and uncomfortable, utterly uncharacteristic although his brain latched onto the idea of saving the cowering man as though it were the only thing that mattered in the whole goddamn world. Perhaps it was fear, bred from the realization that his entire existence had shattered in one fleeting moment. Perhaps it was confusion, as his mind could not hold any one thought save for this strange impulse. Most likely, it was because of Lucius, bellowing and threatening, never granted Vulpes a quiet moment to think.

He was acting out of spite.

The slave trembled and Vulpes stared. Lucius slipped closer like a slithering serpent, a cobra flaring its hood as he reared back his fist for a blow that would have shattered the porcelain doctor. Tension and rage floated through the air so thick that it became suffocating. He found it growing harder and harder to breathe. 

And still, Lucius yelled. The hairs on the back of Vulpes’ neck stood on end. His body began to move on its own.

“Stop!” he half-snarled, the sound of his voice enough to pause the madness for a brief moment. Given Vulpes’ typical temperament, the idea of him being angry enough to raise his voice was apparently as daunting as Legate Lanius himself. Yet, there was no satisfaction in their terror. Instead, all Vulpes could focus on was the fact that, for the second time in his illustrious career, he had had the audacity to break the chain of command.

It was gratifying in a way, but terrifying. With his outburst came the possibility of execution. Caesar had stayed the last attempt, but now there was nobody to protect him.

“We are civilized men,” he continued, voice struggling to remain steady. “We will handle this as such.”

The slave whispered something low and hopeful, and was met with a poorly aimed fist that barely missed his face. Lucius was not a man whose patience should be tried. Vulpes angled himself between them and struggled not to notice the cadaver sprawled out within arm’s reach, unmoving and cold. He struggled harder not to think of Lanius coming to take his mantle.

“There is honesty in his words. Profligate or no, this man did not kill our lord in cold blood.”

“Yet he _killed_ him,” Lucius snarled. “A life for a life.”

“We are not equating this to murder. Caesar was ill and this man could not save him. Do we crucify every healer who cannot save an injured legionnaire? Every midwife who delivers a stillborn child?”

“He cut him open and--”

“And he had _brain cancer_ , Lucius. Even if it was operable, it could have killed him anyway. We do not have the means to fight such a thing.”

There was no look of knowing on Lucius’ face, but Vulpes knew better than to be surprised. He had been afforded passage to a land of the dissolute and knew the language of their ailments. Lucius was sheltered and oblivious. Still, he did seem to understand the gravity of the words and, as the slave staggered weakly to his feet, Lucius waved off his men. They shrank away, but there was still distrust in their eyes.

“This is a matter where Caesar could not be saved. He was unconscious even before this procedure began. His place is among the gods now. His flesh was mortal, Lucius. Only his spirit could last for eternity.”

“You speak blasphemy,” Lucius warned in a low, dangerous voice. Unshaken, Vulpes’ lip pulled up in a snarl.

“And you speak like a savage child. You throw tantrums like an infant and do a disservice to your honor and rank. Your men respect you and Caesar honored you over all but Lanius. Why not act the part?”

“Do _not_ talk to your superior like that.”

“Then stop acting inferior.”

As though he had been slapped, Lucius recoiled, face flushed red with anger and what Vulpes hoped was shame. Throwing up his hands, he conceded defeat. A shadow of his formerly composed self, he began to pace the length of Caesar’s quarters, his eyes occasionally raising to his fallen lord before turning back to his own feet.

“The more pressing matter is that he is dead. His men must be told. Lanius must be informed of his ascension and made ready for his rightful place as our new leader. The priestesses must be notified so that burial rites can be administered. His body must be prepared. This is not the time for emotional outbursts, this is a solemn moment to be treated with the weight it deserves. We must not shame Caesar by falling to pieces.”

Behind him, he could feel the slave slinking further away from the two men. When Vulpes turned to face him, he nearly hit the ground in fright.

“Slave, do you have the means to...”

Vulpes glanced at Caesar’s body, the gaping hole in his head, the blood, the glassy stare.

“... To make him presentable?”

The slave shook so violently that it was a wonder he could stand, leaning precariously past Vulpes to get a good eyeful of his handiwork. The expression that grew on his face would have been amusing had it been any other situation, one eyebrow cocked and his nose scrunched in uncertainty as he let out a pitiful, wavering whine. He weighed his options carefully, thoughts playing out behind his eyes. None of his answers seemed like they would have been anything Vulpes wanted to hear and the profligate seemed unwilling to share.

“Like, put him… back... together?” he asked incredulously. From behind fogged glasses, his eyes drifted up to meet those of Vulpes, then lazily floated to the unblinking and furious glare of Lucius. Finally, they rested on Caesar’s lifeless husk. He bit his lip in uncertainty.

“I could, ah, suture the incision but, the skull. It’s, ah...” 

He trailed off, swallowed hard. 

“I could use Wonderglue?”

Lucius burst out in humorless laughter as Vulpes stared blankly at the slave. 

_Glue?_

He was nearly offended by the prospect. It seemed so unseemly to patch together the son of a god with glue, though the logical side of him whispered that it would not make much of a difference. It only had to serve an aesthetic purpose. 

He opted to give the slave an “A” for effort.

“Glue?” he echoed, and the slave shrank into himself as though trying to will himself invisible.

“Well, ah, y-you see, under normal circumstances you don’t... I mean, when a patient _survives_ the procedure--unless it’s a sizable cut--you, ah, y-you don’t really put anything _back_. It’s just assumed it’ll heal on its own. And with a, uh, procedure so big you just... I mean... I, ah... I mean, I can fix it with glue and get the bone back on, but, ah...”

Though Lucius trembled with anger, Vulpes stood perfectly still. Anxiety still slithered through his body like a plague and his bones buzzed with an uncomfortable energy, but he kept his face composed as he nodded solemnly and tangled his fingers in the slave’s shirt.

“Fair enough,” he answered. Immediately, Lucius and his men swarmed around Caesar’s body as though to form a barrier about it, like vicious hounds. It was obvious that Vulpes was no longer welcome.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“I believe the merchant from Phoenix is still here. I would like to see if he has... glue.”

“And the slave?”

“I did not advance to being Caesar’s eyes and ears by being a dullard. If you think I am leaving this one alone with you, you are mistaken.”

“Then, by my orders--”

“Until Lanius arrives, we do not know if you will still be my superior. He seems to be of the mind that you have lived past your prime.”

Vulpes spun around, whipping the slave with him.

“Besides, do you want our lord to be presentable for the gods or not?”

“I--”

He turned once more to the door, the slave stumbling with him, protesting quietly. He didn’t seem wholly convinced that the merchant was where they were going and, honestly, Vulpes could understand such fear. He hadn’t garnered a reputation among the profligates as being particularly honest.

“This slave still has use. I will return shortly. Until then? _Vale_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have probably posted the "prologue" separately as a standalone, but it's too late now I guess. So, here we go or whatever. Thumbs up. This is a good note.


	3. Chapter 3

Arcade Gannon was a man of many talents, the foremost being that he had a reserve of bad luck that flowed wider than the Colorado River. Budget cuts meant that his studies had been limited to crushing and eating cacti to figure out which ones cured bullet holes and cancer. He hadn’t had a relationship since he was in his mid-twenties and went on a pity date with a woman who started crying when he told her he was gay. Oh, and a man he trusted with his life had sold him to the Legion for less caps than it takes to buy a decent gun.  _ That _ was a fun one.

Now, he was in a predicament so bad that a man he recognized from those tacky NCR anti-theft posters was the only one who would side with him. That was a special sort of special.

The sun sank in the sky above him, melting into the horizon in a fiery mix of oranges and yellows that fizzled into purples as the night began to sneak overhead. Fires burned in front of empty rows of tents, abandoned by recruits who could be heard screaming raucous battle cries from the training yard. Sparks flew from a weaponsmith’s grindstone as he sat, focused and sweating in front of a near-glowing machete, sharpening it to a deadly point. His fellow slaves darted up and down the dusty footpaths with water, with packs, with healing powder and food.

As he marched past on the heels of Vulpes Inculta, covered in blood, they looked at him with sympathy, a far cry from the envy and hate they’d beamed at him earlier on. If only they knew just how badly he’d screwed up. 

Ahead of him, his unexpected savior mumbled to himself in Latin, oblivious to the fact that Arcade could almost understand what he was saying. Something about his nerves, something else about Lanius, half-hearted mulling about just walking to the river and, well, continuing to walk. Coupled with the fact he had gone out of his way to talk a punch-happy man in an armored dress out of knocking Arcade’s head clean off of his shoulders, it made him seem a lot more human than the legionnaires in all those NCR propaganda fliers. He wasn’t some square-jawed demon without the capability to think for himself. He was a tall, pale, slick-haired man who smelled like sweat and whose breathtaking physique didn’t hide the fact that he was pitifully underfed, slept too little, and worked too much.

Dark circles beneath his eyes. Resting bitch face to a degree that unnerved him. Stiffness when he moved that belied improperly treated injuries in his past. Grumbling to himself in such a way that proved he was just a walking ball of neuroses. He was just a dangerously unpredictable man on the cusp of his thirties whose most pressing needs included a nap and a sandwich.

It was sad, really. Sad, and a little scary.

The further they walked, the more Arcade noticed that they were actively leaving the camp. Tents gave way to a series of rocky ditches and steep slopes, and a vast expanse of red sand that abruptly ended at jagged, scrap metal gates. It was a place he recognized immediately and his stomach sank at the memory of his friend, the courier from Goodsprings, bringing him in through those towering, tetanus-riddled doors and emptying his pockets of all of his medicine, his laser pistol, and anything else that would have proven useful in an escape. The praetorian guard who patted him down was still standing there dutifully weeks later, at a post he seemed to resent as much as he resented the slave hobbling toward him. 

Hell, the ferryman was still there, unnaturally tall with dim eyes and no spark of intelligence behind them. He frowned at everything. The man seemed to not remember what joy was.

Just as he was about to ask his “master” why they were leaving, Vulpes barked words in a dead language, raising an arm to get the attention of the men lingering at the gates. They looked up and immediately straightened their postures, adjusted their expressions, and were the very pictures of duty and professionalism. 

Vulpes demanded to know if the man from Phoenix was still in the camp. 

No, the guardsman answered. The man had left, but he had  _ just  _ left. If Vulpes wanted to catch him, he probably could run after him.

Yes, okay, but did either of the men at the gate happen to have miraculously purchased glue?

Well, no. They hadn’t. That was kind of a weird question, wasn’t it? Why did Vulpes need glue?

Vulpes needed to put a skull back together.

Yes, but  _ why _ ?

It wasn’t for Vulpes to say but, you know what? He’d catch the merchant. He really needed glue. It was  _ important _ .

With that, the legionnaire turned toward him and uttered the first words in English he ever directly spoke to his overqualified servant: “Stay here.”

“No arguments here,” Arcade replied, though when he noticed the glare of disapproval from his audience, he tacked on a nervous, “Sir.”

Vulpes turned from him, half-bounding down the rest of the hill as gravity pulled him to the bottom, hitting the landing with a less-than-graceful stumble that witnesses knew better than to laugh at. It was just one more flaw in a man he’d seen painted as a monster, one more proof that he was a human being. A human being with failings and presumably feelings which only served to make him more unpredictable and dangerous.

Arcade cringed. He didn’t really  _ like _ the idea of a more dangerous frumentarius.

The gates creaked open with a loud and deafening screech, pulleys and chains coming together in a great symphony that was ripped straight from Hell’s own sheet music. Satan’s  _ Firepit Sonata no. 4 _ , if Arcade wasn’t mistaken, as performed by the Trans-Legion Orchestra. It made his head ring and his eyes water, though they had the good grace to not shut the damn thing once Vulpes had slipped through a barely man-sized crack in the defenses and disappeared down the footpath. Not even men of their particular caste of horrible would subject humanity to that godawful noise more than they had to.

After his footsteps faded into the distance, drowned out by the sound of the Colorado River and soon-to-be legionnaires horseplaying on a series of rickety steps behind him, an uncomfortable silence fell over the three men standing beside the gate. Back in Freeside, he probably would have attempted to make conversation to alleviate the painful awkwardness and get in good with his company; it wasn’t every day that a man like him found himself surrounded by stacked men with jawlines that could make an angel weep. However, uncomfortable flirting seemed less like an adventure and more like a liability while he was sporting the stylish bomb collar they’d gifted him upon his arrival to their lovely retreat.

He heard they were all the rage in Arizona. 

He nearly laughed before realizing that, if he had, the legionnaires would have helped escort him straight to hell, which is where he belonged after cracking that joke. Instead, he stood perfectly still at the base of a dusty hill, in awe of just how nonplussed they seemed about seeing a slave covered in blood just lingering on the edge of their peripheral vision. Occasionally, they’d spare him a glance to measure how much attention he was paying to them before springing into sparse conversation that Arcade could only catch snippets of. It was surprisingly normal talk for men raised on such wholesome extracurricular activities as rape and murder, ranging from angsty sighing about how they missed certain (presumably enslaved) women to half-hearted bitching about food quality.

The ferryman, taller than any man Arcade had ever seen and young enough to still be growing, wondered aloud if they’d ever give him a tent that his feet actually fit in. The praetorian guardsman began talking about strange things he had confiscated from captives and visitors, ranging from Psycho injectors to “phallic objects that reeked of sin.” The ferryman asked what that was supposed to mean.

Arcade barked a laugh in spite of himself. His keepers looked up in bewildered silence, a hint of contempt evident on their faces. He opted to distract himself with anything but their conversation.

Turning his back to the legionnaires and staring up the hill, he watched as shadows darted along the dusty and uneven footpaths. Kids with machetes chased one another across worn log stairs, dressed in Legion red and screaming triumphantly in Latin about killing bears and fighting what they perceived as crime. His fellow slaves struggled to hold up packs as big as their bodies, hobbling along single mindedly, trying to avoid the munchkins that zipped around their feet. Soldiers weaved through with complete disregard to both, their eyes either focused dead on the horizon or on the barren earth, like they had far more pressing concerns than a couple of half-dead women and rambunctious children.

Arcade could sympathize, as much as he hated to say it. The last week or so had given him a lot to think about, even if he couldn’t remember half of it in the swirl of memories between leaving Freeside and arriving at Caesar’s fort. 

He could remember the courier seeming like an alright guy. He’d heard of him on the news a couple of times, a young man who was caught being good around the Mojave after clawing his way out of a shallow grave. The guy was the typical handsome, hardened wasteland hero with grit and stubble and a gun that weighed more than most of the Followers. He had a genuine smile and an impressive knowledge of biology and tech that had proven useful more than a couple of times, as well as a generous nature that saw the Mormon Fort brimming with enough Med-X and Rad-Away to heal the wasteland twice over.

He could remember him asking Arcade, half-pleading, to come with him. There was somebody who had been crucified near Cottonwood Cove, but the NCR camp nearest the tragedy lacked a proper medic to treat him. They needed an actual doctor and Arcade was the best the Mojave had. 

Hubris is one hell of a thing. Hubris kills kings and topples empires. Hubris gets unsuspecting medical practitioners bagged and dragged to a Legion cage.

The bomb collar, the chains, the gates, the confiscation of everything that gave him hope; his memory from there was just a panicked blur with the barest moment of lucidity. Ignorant men spent far too long gathering surgical supplies, Arcade spent far too long fiddling with a malfunctioning Auto-Doc, and heated words were hissed into the back of his neck as he tried to remember what his medical books said about the procedure. Vulpes Inculta, mostly silent and expressionless, always seemed to be watching him like a goddamned vulture, hovering in dark corners and standing like a statue outside of entrances.

Speaking of Vulpes, what was up with that guy?

He turned around when he heard a screech of metal, watching as an unfamiliar face tried to shove himself through a Vulpes-sized gap. He was a bulky monster of a man with a temper that seemed a notch above the guards around him. He spat on the sand and kicked the gate, shoving past Arcade as he stomped up the hill like a petulant child.

He was exactly what Arcade had expected of Legion soldiers, everything that Vulpes was not.

Vulpes was unnerving in that regard. In the short time that Arcade had watched him skulking about, his psychological training had given him more mixed readings that a Geiger counter out in the desert. Was he a sociopath? Not likely, though Arcade initially had him pegged as being antisocial. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? That was more believable, though Arcade would much rather hang his hat on Stockholm Syndrome now.

All he knew for certain is that Vulpes commanded a lot of respect, he never smiled, he never yelled. He was perpetually stone-faced at all times, calm and quiet and disarmingly polite. His list of accomplishments seemed to involve a lot of mass murder, all of them rattled off to him when he had had the audacity to ask who the weird man in the corner was. He also knew that Vulpes was basically a Legion mom, judging from his take-no-sass attitude back at Caesar’s tent.

And, most confusing of all, he knew Vulpes had saved him for some reason. Maybe a temporary reason, but that didn’t change the fact that Arcade was breathing when Lucius was trying really hard to rectify that. Trying to figure out his motives sent a chill down Arcade’s spine. God, he hoped Vulpes hadn’t taken a  _ liking  _ to him. He was a gorgeous specimen among homicidal insomniacs, but Arcade preferred men who weren’t war criminals.

His thoughts screeched to a halt with the ear-splitting sound of grinding metal behind him, the gate coming together with a loud “shunk” that spoke of finality. Every hair on the back of his neck stood on end when he heard a round of exasperated pleasantries being exchanged behind him, like shopkeepers sick of repeating the words “Have a nice day.” He heard boots crunching on the dry earth and felt a presence closing the distance between him, an imaginary pressure on his back that only dissipated when he saw a familiar, lithe man sweep past him with a bottle of Wonderglue clenched in his hands.

“Come, slave. We’ve work for you.”

Arcade swallowed hard and hesitated for the briefest of moments before loping up the hill after his master.


	4. Chapter 4

Lanius was coming. His campaign in the Utah was ending and he was coming to take the throne of Caesar, fleet-footed messengers already racing across the eastern sands to deliver the news. Soon, the thundering footsteps of the Monster of the East and all those who followed him would ascend the dusty trails to the Fort, march through the gate, and begin their reign over Caesar’s chosen. A man who held no love of the Legion or those who held its banner high would soon wear the crown of its emperor. His will would be law, his will would be done. 

It was all Vulpes could think about in the hours following his lord’s demise. As he led the slave to the gates of the camp, he mumbled to himself, vague reassurances and whispered threats of abandoning his post. Clutching his prize from the merchant and wandering back to Caesar’s corpse, the fear of Lanius being in the throne danced at the back of his mind. He was deaf to the forced lamentations of Caesar’s slave-wives and blind to the sight of the slave meticulously piecing his master back together, bit by aching bit, like a repairman tinkering with a broken radio. All he could think about was Lanius, towering and cruel, standing over him with a steel scowl and ordering him to the cross.

His fears were not assuaged by Antony’s presence.

The houndmaster of Caesar was many things: brilliant, honest, and hardworking to the point that it almost became a flaw. He was driven and devoted to his work, and full of wit and vinegar. It was easy to see why their lord had opted to spare him despite the fact he was a touch older than the typical recruits when his tribe was pacified. Denver had spat out a prodigy, as unlikely as it seemed. He had only one failing, though Vulpes had always found value in the flaw. 

Antony was extremely opinionated.

It wasn’t anything that was lost on his superiors. Anyone who’d lend the houndmaster their ear for any stretch of time would soon learn that he had rather strong opinions concerning the Legion, Caesar, the eradication of his tribe, the condition of the kennels, the local religion, and gods-damned Legatus Lanius. Sometimes he was loud and unashamed, sometimes he would only hint at his meaning, but every passing thought that popped in his head would eventually spill out of his mouth like honey and venom. The fact it was not always appreciated was evident in his voice; it was the auditory equivalent of cracked asphalt, the product of a rather vicious blow meant to silence him for good.

But, his honesty was beneficial for a frumentarius, especially one who had made his name by breaking a few rules himself. Anything that happened in Vulpes’ absence was reported faithfully. Anything being plotted against Vulpes became as clear as the Colorado River. Rumors were dispelled, events were explained, and he was quite brutally honest in his feedback. Searchlight may never have happened had Antony not given his two cents about Vulpes being “too lenient.”

In the wake of Caesar’s death and the advent of Lanius, Antony’s tongue was a scorpion’s tail. He spat poison as he sat on the crates by the kennels, his favored cur curled at his feet and a cigarette twirling in his hand. Forbidden as it may have been, he had insisted that he needed it for his nerves. Coughing, he offered Vulpes a drag. Vulpes felt a pang of disgust when he nearly accepted.

“I’m just saying,” he offered between hacks, “that there’s not much of a place for people like me and you under Lanius’ rule. Hell, I don’t even think Severus is gonna last. Loyal as he is, the man’s got an attitude like a yao guai with its balls in a vice grip.”

“We don’t know that,” Vulpes contended, his voice flat. Anyone else would have been incapable of detecting the doubt in it, but Antony had known him for far too long. The man’s lips twitched, threatening to turn into a smile. A laugh huffed out of his nose with a cloud of smoke.

“Okay, no. You  _ know _ , Vulpes. Lanius  _ hates _ you. He’s hated you since you disobeyed Silus back with the Iron Lines. Yeah, sure, okay, you won. But Lanius had never agreed with Caesar’s decision to promote you for being, in his words, ‘a degenerate bitch.’”

“He called me that?” Vulpes asked, raising his eyebrows.

”Yeah,” Antony snarled bitterly. “Had the audacity to use ‘bitch’ as an insult. I couldn’t believe it either.”

Silence spanned between them as Antony took another long drag from his cigarette, holding in the smoke for as long as he could before letting it spill from his nostrils in a puff of condensed hate. The sounds of the river lapping at the sandy banks just over the wall and coyotes baying in the distance was almost overwhelming, Vulpes’ nerves screaming with every stray noise. He fought the urge to jump when he heard somebody climb out of their tent to relieve themselves, half expecting it to be the legate’s men coming to take him away.

“Relax,” Antony cooed. “We’re all going to die someday anyway.”

“I know. However, it would be pleasant to know that I would deny Lanius the satisfaction of killing me.”

The words tasted like blood and treason, but the honesty of them made Antony cackle. His laugh was ragged and hoarse, like sandpaper given a voice. It made an uncomfortable tingle race down Vulpes’ spine.

“And  _ there’s _ the Vulpes I know. It’s good to know that the real you is still in there somewhere, but I shouldn’t have doubted that. You let that slave that killed Caesar live. There’s hope for you yet.”

Vulpes’ brows furrowed as he mumbled, “You know about that?”

“I’d be surprised if anyone didn’t know,” the houndmaster answered, raking a hand through his tousled mohawk. “Lucius would  _ not  _ shut up about it. Came down here and started barking at anyone who would listen about the audacity of the fox. Cornered poor Agapius out in the training yard and just would not let it go.”

He lifted his hand next to his head, mimicking a dog’s head with his fingers, index finger and pinkie raised high as ears. It’s tiny jaws chattered as Antony’s voice rose to a cracking, fragile pitch.

“By Mars, my men, can you believe the audacity of that miserable runt?” the hand jabbered. “The profligate has murdered our lord and he lets him walk. The dissolute bastard sleeps sound while we bury our beloved Caesar. I call for crucifixion! Lanius shall hear of this treachery.”

Antony dropped his hand at his side, took one final draw off of his cigarette, then extinguished it on his boot. The butt was carefully hidden inside as another of the foul things was fished from a satchel at his waist. His match ignited like a firefly, a brief flicker in the night before the desert wind claimed it. Antony grumbled as he lit a second.

“And your opinion on the matter?” Vulpes asked curiously. Antony arched an eyebrow as he inhaled a second helping of tobacco, half-smiling as he chuckled smoke between his teeth.

“I think you short-circuited to the point your common sense kicked in for once. Under normal circumstances you’d have taken your gun to the guy without explaining to him  _ why _ . But you weren’t worried about Caesar’s opinion. Man was dead. You reacted like Vulpes Inculta.”

Vulpes remained silent, unsure of how to respond. It was a first. Typically, he had a witty response for just about any occasion, a retaliatory remark for anything that conflicted his world view. Now, the only thing he could manage was silence, settling quietly onto the dirt with his eyes focused on his feet.

“Your problem is that you’ve always been gullible,” Antony coughed, wagging his cigarette in Vulpes’ face. “You’re smart, but Caesar fed you that ‘solemn duty’ and ‘saving humanity’ bullshit and you ate it up and asked for seconds. Who knows? Maybe the man was right. Maybe positive change has to be born in a pile of dead tribals, but I’m pretty sure his men believed more in his ambitions than he did. He slaughtered our people to secure his power. You burned Nipton because you trusted his vision.”

“You’re speaking treason,  _ amicus _ .”

“If honesty is treason, take me now.”

Beneath Antony’s feet, his hound stirred, an old bitch with gray on her muzzle and scars on her snout. She let out a satisfied groan as she wriggled onto her back, paws folded neatly against her chest, tail wagging furiously as Antony reached out a hand and patted her firmly on the belly. A long, floppy tongue lolled out of her mouth as a grin stretched across her face.

“Look, Vulpes,” he sighed, extinguishing what was left of his second smoke, “I won’t pull punches with you, alright? What I will say is that you’re too much of a free thinker for Lanius to appreciate you. We both are. Caesar let me slide because he thought I was ‘harmless,’ and he could appreciate your intelligence and insight because you were so dedicated to his banner, but we’ll be nailed to the fuckin’ wall as soon as Lanius comes through that gate. A  _ lot  _ of us will be.”

“And you propose...?”

“We run.”

Vulpes examined Antony closely for any sign of jest, but his expression was stony and stern, his eyes glimmering in the moonlight with a determination that was uncharacteristic of him. As Vulpes slowly rose to his feet, Antony leaned in close, nose-to-nose, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. In a cloud of dust, his dog rolled to her feet and stood attentively, ears pricked up atop her head like radar dishes.

“We got a few of us. Me, Agapius, Hector. Hell, we even got Luculus because Lanius is so petty the man’s afraid that he’ll crucify him for being  _ taller _ . If you want to tag along, we welcome the presence of someone who knows his way around the Mojave.”

“I do not believe that it would be very wise to--”

“To leave? Why? What’s the alternative? We wait until a new leader, cruel and full of  _ contempt _ for us, shows up with his staunchest supporters and executes us all? Honestly, Vulpes, even if we weren’t outright killed, I have a very strong feeling the Dam isn’t going to go much better for us the next time. Caesar threw Graham into the Canyon, but Lanius doesn’t have enough restraint to pick a single target. He’d lock us all in the fort and burn it to the ground just to make it  _ super fuckin’ clear _ that he’s not real happy about the loss.”

Images of destruction flashed in Vulpes’ mind, violent daydreams of what could have been. The Monster of the East wasn’t known for his mercy or tolerance. Having watched him profane, brutalize, rape, and murder a dozen tribes, none of what Antony said was without the realm of possibility, and the depths of his depravity brought to mind the profligate criminals across the river more than his noble former master.

He blinded his slaves so they could not look upon his face. He loathed the Legion, his only tether to their cause being his devotion to Caesar, a man who could no longer steer him. He murdered his men under the guise of “punishment” for infractions so minor that it was a wonder any survived beneath his command. Even Caesar proudly described him as a beast, a weapon, a being no longer capable of being called human. He had confessed once, smiling, that Lanius existed so that the legionnaires would be more afraid of what was behind them than before them, a crazed creature leading the spooked herd to a buffalo jump.

And gods, how he hated Vulpes. This, too, could not be denied. It was a source of much frustration to their liege, but in his absence, Vulpes would be a slave to Lanius’ whims once he arrived.

“How do you even plan to escape?” Vulpes asked slowly, uncertainly. Antony sniffed.

“We use the window of chaos. Caesar is dead, Lanius isn’t here yet, and Lucius is too beside himself to keep things in order. We gather what we can, we gather who we can, we meet up with Luculus, and we bolt.”

“The gates are very--”

“Loud. I know. We’re going to have to keep our fingers crossed and run. We just have to make it to the other side of the river.”

“The NCR has an outpost directly across from us,” Vulpes warned, brows knitting together. Antony took a deep breath and snorted, though his laugh was not very convincing. Finally, the nerves had kicked in.

“Well, I had an idea to make our escape more, ah,  _ agreeable _ with the profligates,” he muttered. “I was gonna round up a bunch of the slaves from their tents and drag them with us.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, more bodies means it’s less likely that one of us will get hit when our brothers start shooting. Being in the company of ‘innocent’ slaves once we reach the land of the NCR makes it less likely they’ll gun us down, and gives us some bargaining ground to boot. You said it yourself, a long time ago. The profligates are obsessed with the idea of freeing them.”

Vulpes nodded, though his mind still reeled with conflicting thoughts. In the deepest pit of his stomach, he could feel a cold knot forming, painful and icy and nauseating. Common sense screamed that running would be the only way to save himself, but the creeping dread of what became of those who abandoned their lord paralyzed him. Guilt and doubt tore at his brain like feral dogs feasting on a corpse. Pain sparked behind his eyes and he snarled in exasperation and anxiety.

“You’re in whether you know it or not,” Antony snorted. “You’ve got too much common sense to sit this out.”

Even if silence answered Antony’s comment, he could tell he had struck a chord. And he had. Vulpes couldn’t deny it, heart hammering in his chest and throbbing in his ears. The offer was enticing and, the longer it lingered in his mind, the more it seemed like a perfect idea. A cowardly idea, but brilliant.

“We’re gonna have to start planning soon. Maybe meeting up tomorrow night. Witching hour. Bring the doctor that killed Caesar because, who knows, maybe he’ll be useful if we hit a mine.”

Antony clapped Vulpes on the shoulder and grinned. His dog did a tap dance beside him, front paws stomping excitedly into the dirt at the revelation that their night was over, anticipating a warm kennel and a nighttime meal. 

“I just hope he’s better at fixing legs than brains.”


	5. Chapter 5

Arcade sat in the corner and stared.

He couldn’t lie and say he felt proud, gawking at his fellow slaves like they were freaks in a show, but his mind still couldn’t quite wrap itself around the situation. The slave tents smelled like sweat and sex, a row of heavily stained bedrolls lining the ground for men, women, and children who were thrice their number. Every last one of them, save Arcade himself, was clad in rags and burlap that had been slowly destroyed by wear and bodily fluids. The doctor himself had the good fortune to be allowed his lab coat, though it was still streaked red with Caesar’s blood, a fact that marked him as a pariah among the pariahs.

They avoided him like the plague, scurrying around the sprawling tent like a horde of rats, struggling to find room to sleep on the floor and clinging to the scant few they had developed desperate relationships with. A few of the more resourceful captives huddled in a protective circle with their backs to the walls, hunched over a pile of smuggled goods they had managed to swipe from their keepers out of both need and spite. Most of their haul comprised of small things that would not be missed, though some were considerably more daring in their extralegal ventures. A brazen young man with a wide grin seemed to have walked away with a paring knife, a fact that brought gasps of appreciation from his peers. An elderly woman who lived the “good life” tending the gardens unceremoniously dumped three Caravan decks worth of cards in the pile, laughing like a loon as her neighbors quietly cheered.

In a way, Arcade envied them. Sitting alone in his musty corner covered in tyrant juice and quietly wondering how long it would be before Lucius came to burn him alive would have been  _ much _ more enjoyable with some friendly conversation to end the evening. Or, he dare say, even a hand of Caravan, and he hated Caravan with the fury of a thousand Mojave suns. It made no logical sense and the rules always seemed to be changing but, by god, he would lose with the grace and dignity of a princess if it meant having just enough social interaction to distract himself from the hell he’d been sold into.

As though they felt him staring, the cool kids scooted closer together and fell quiet, their voices hushed whispers speaking secrets he wasn’t allowed to know. Occasionally, he’d catch a snippet of laughter or a small squeal that could have either been excitement or sobbing. It felt like being a teenager again, but with the imminent threat of being murdered if he made any sudden moves.

He sighed as he leaned back on his palms and stared up at the fluttering burlap flaps above him, bones creaking in uncomfortable ways as he settled into the dirt. Maybe if he just went to sleep, he’d have a heart attack from all of this stress and never wake up. Or maybe one of the praetorian guards would sneak in and put a bullet in his head that he wouldn’t even be awake enough to notice. Perhaps all of this was a nightmare and he’d wake up unscathed on his dingy little mattress in the back of the Mormon Fort.

He could also kill himself. That was always a plan. It’d take finding the means, but if an old lady could steal three decks of playing cards, he could probably steal the knife from that kid. Not that it was the most morally sound decision he’d ever make, but he’d get his knife back in the end, right? It wasn’t like Arcade planned on keeping it.

A smile stretched across his face. There was some relief in knowing that there was a way out.

The bustling around him began to quiet as captive children snuggled close to surrogate parents who shivered in uncomfortable positions across the sandy ground. The lucky few who had managed to snag bed rolls seemed unsure of what to do with them, guiltily eyeing their neighbors as they tossed and turned over the stained blue fabric. The guild of thieves, however, seemed dead set on staying awake past their bedtime, though their voices politely dropped to a series of haunting whispers and choked chuckles in an effort to spare their fellows of being robbed of sleep.

One of them glanced back at Arcade, eyebrow raised when she noticed he was still very much awake and very much watching them. 

“Can help you?” she sputtered in a broken, unfamiliar accent. He supposed she had once been a tribal. English was probably not her favored tongue.

“No, ma’am. Just contemplating suicide and you happen to be sitting where I’m staring,” he answered with a humorless laugh. A knowing smile crossed her lips as she nodded and turned back to the pile of treasures between them. It was sad to think she understood exactly where he was coming from, but he supposed the burning desire to kill oneself was one of the more common sentiments among enslaved humans between the ages of ten and eighty-three.

He briefly wondered what that statistic would be among the soldiers. It probably wasn’t nearly as high, he supposed, at least not until one of them messed up. In a society where mistakes were punished by having sixteen-year-old boys staple one another to light posts and beat one another until they stopped breathing, it was fair to assume that the second the word “whoops” was uttered, somebody was thinking up the first draft of a suicide note.

Speaking of, he wondered if he wrote one if he could get the Goodsprings courier to deliver it to himself? Just slip it into his satchel when he inevitably came sauntering back into those broken gates, an eloquent good-bye to the man who had left the biggest mark on his life. He’d write it in the prettiest goddamned calligraphy he could manage in his own blood and sweat, a graceful and tactful “fuck you” written on the nicest scrap of litter he could find in the camp.

Because to hell with wit. Arcade wanted the courier to choke on a piece of rat meat and die in a cazador-filled gutter.

Seconds ticked by before Arcade realized the silence was quieter than it had been. Eyes glazed over in thought, he gently shook his head at the sudden, sinking feeling that something was wrong and the slaves were not alone. Mind still bogged down with fog and anger, it took him a moment to realize that the crew of pickpockets in front of him had hunkered down like a grenade had been thrown into the tent, that those who had once been sleeping were now crawling out of the way to make a path through the middle of the cramped tent. Children squeaked in alarm as frightened caretakers struggled to stifle their tears, young men sitting stiff-jawed with their backs to the wall and their eyes trailing a single figure that carved a trail between them.

Tall. Lean. Pale. Underfed. Overworked.

No. No. No. No.  _ No. _

Arcade scampered backwards into the wall of the tent, the burlap giving way to his weight and bulging until his back came into contact with a crate on the opposite side, but Vulpes Inculta did not slow. Pale eyes locked on him with the hungry expression of a predator. His gait was stiff and tense, a marble statue given the breath of life and unaccustomed to the fluidity of human motion. Arcade glanced around for an escape, any escape, the last scraps of his survival instincts kicking in with a feral scream.

“You. Doctor.”

The icy, steady voice of Vulpes rang through the tent, eliciting cries for mercy from everyone but Arcade. Dr. Gannon, trapped and filled with so much adrenaline that his heart threatened to explode, had suddenly found that he had mentally checked out for the evening. In his place was a man-sized rat stuck in a maze of human bodies and machetes.

“I’ve come to--”

The sentence cut off abruptly. Glancing up above the brim of his glasses, Arcade could see that Vulpes had paused beside the circle of bandits and their ill-gotten gains. His expression shifted ever-so-slightly from “cold indifference” to “reanimated monster seeing a flower for the first time.” Confusion was plastered across him like a frieze, soon morphing to amusement, then bewilderment, then fading back into his default expression of universal disapproval. 

“What is all this, then?”

The slaves in the circle looked up, wide-eyed and terrified, as Vulpes regarded them with the same distant gaze he seemed to regard most things. He sniffed, paced around them once, and smiled as the surrounding men and women clamored out of the way like the frumentarius was made of explosives. Those he had trapped only stared at the ground and waited with bated breath, their eyes darting between one another and their loot as though seeking for somebody,  _ anybody _ to blame. Occasionally, they’d glance up at Arcade.

Arcade’s brows furrowed. No way, buddy, this was  _ your _ problem.

“Not what I was expecting when I came to speak with the profligate doctor,” Vulpes droned. “Seems we have some resourceful ones. Pray tell, where did you find  _ this _ ?”

The paring knife was removed from the pile, the color draining from the thief’s face as he froze in place. The kid couldn’t have been more than nineteen, now watching all of his short, pitiful life flash before his eyes and muttering regrets and apologies to divine powers like they’d swoop down and carry him away. Whatever his denomination, they didn’t seem too keen on pulling him out of this particular snafu.

“My, my. I thought Canyon Runner had properly taught you Legion virtue. It appears as though he is losing his touch, else you’d know how severely we punish thieves among your kind.”

Vulpes tossed a glance to Arcade, then down at the cowering slaves before stuffing the knife into a satchel at his side and briefly examining the remainder of the objects. The elderly woman with the Caravan decks began to cry, just as Arcade noticed a look of genuine surprise on Vulpes’ face. The man seemed damn near impressed by the sheer volume of cards.

“Fortunately for you, I have more pressing matters to attend to. This will not be forgotten, but for now it will be overlooked.”

Vulpes’ eyes flicked up to Arcade, and his blood turned to ice slurry in his veins.

“You. Doctor. I need to speak with you.  _ Now. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have every intention of finishing this, but life is getting hectic and I may be slow. I do want to say that I appreciate all of the kind words I have been getting. They've been a ray of sunshine during the most stormy period of my life.


	6. Chapter 6

Since the courier’s first visit with the departed Caesar, the weather station had been forgotten. Members of the praetorian guard had abandoned their posts, believing that protecting an empty basement was a task far beneath them, a sentiment shared with their late lord. The only visitors the building seemed to receive anymore were disobedient recruits who sneaked from the training yards to partake of forbidden activities, evident in the scattered beer bottles and the pungent odor of tobacco smoke that haunted the building like a malevolent spirit. 

Vulpes was certain that Caesar spun in his grave.

The lights thrummed above them after Vulpes flicked on the switch, the faint sound of a forgotten radio crackling in the distance. His boots clinked against an empty whiskey bottle and his lip curled in disgust as he nudged it aside, trudging into the middle of the room with feet burdened by doubt and duty. Behind him, he could hear the good doctor forcing himself to follow, soft and tentative steps padding on the concrete as he shuffled stiffly forward, weighed down by his own fear and exhaustion He was likely wondering what ill fate awaited him in such an isolated building on the fringes of the Fort.

That terror was momentarily forgotten when his eyes rested on the opened Lucky 38 bunker. A spark of familiarity lit up in his hazy gaze as he lifted up on his toes and peered down the dark stairwell like a curious child. Bewilderment and curiosity spread across his features, though it honed into a degree of contempt that seemed to breathe the fire of life into him. Vulpes arched an eyebrow as he watched the good doctor’s toes curl around the top step, a silent threat that he was to stray from the beaten path.

“There is nothing down there anymore,” Vulpes matter-of-factly announced. “Sit down.”

He gestured to a stool beside a desk littered with scrap metal and rusted tools, the soft glow of the radio beckoning them like the warm glow of heaven. The doctor regarded both with concern before bowing his head and dragging himself to where Vulpes had ordered him, the spark in his eyes dying with a great, exhausted gust that belied his age. Dust exploded from around him as he fell upon the seat, a great cloud of gray born from a period of disuse. The doctor hacked loudly as it filled his lungs.

The profligates built their men so poorly.

“Dr. Gannon, correct?”

There was legitimate surprise on the slave’s face, his brow furrowing. Vulpes tried not to smile when he answered with the inevitable. 

“How did you know my name?”

“It is my job to know people,” he answered. “I will admit it is mostly through the Courier that I know of you, but there were snippets. I have spent a lot of time in Freeside. You’re a Follower, yes?”

The doctor froze, then stiffly nodded. Every so often, he’d look deep into the dark corners of the room, as though waiting for an ambush. A couple of times, the sheer terror in his eyes was enough to make the back of Vulpes’ neck tingle. He half believed it was an ambush himself.

“Lord Caesar was a Follower. Did you know that?”

“I, ah, I-I actually did.”

Vulpes tilted his head. How impressive. Perhaps it shouldn't have been surprising, him being a Follower and all. Given the differences between their organization and the Legion in the end, Caesar had probably become something of a cautionary tale. Something about the road to hell and good intentions, or whatever drivel the profligates spewed when the son of Mars had his back turned.

“And what do you think of what Caesar has done?”

The doctor fell quiet and somehow grew paler. His head lolled this way and that as his eyes drifted from one interesting speck of dust to another. Non-committal noises floated from somewhere deep within him, but none of them formed words or even the beginning of a syllable. Vulpes crossed his arms, intensifying his glare, following his gaze and always managing to meet it. Once he realized there was no escape, the doctor straightened his glasses and cleared his throat, gesturing broadly at the room.

“Well, I love what he’s done with the place. He, uh, really spruced it up in here with the addition of the radio. Kind of weird that you have a casino in your basement but, hey, I had a casino in my backyard before I was forced into servitude. I can’t judge.”

“That is not what I meant, Dr. Gannon.”

“Oh, I know. But I know that this is going to end with you killing me, and I’m stalling. Not sure why since death is preferable to slavery, but that good ol’ survival instinct seems to have kicked back in the second you came stomping into the slave tent. Give me fifteen minutes for the adrenaline to wear off and I guarantee you I will _not_ care if you shoot me anymore.”

Vulpes blinked. An amused smile pulled up weakly at the corner of his mouth before he fought it back down.

“Well, are we not blunt?” he asked. “A fair guess, doctor, but off the mark. I am not going to kill you, though I will perhaps think of worse ways to punish such insubordination. I do have a lot of practice in that regard, after all. So, let us try this again. This time, answer honestly.”

Having the lingering feeling that this would take a while, Vulpes found an errant chair and took a seat across from his prey. Straddling it like a kid on a brahmin, he crossed his arms over the back and rapped his fingers impatiently on the rusted metal. The doctor seemed more than a little confused by the lack of stringency as he watched Vulpes relax into his chair, clearing his throat as he tried not to let his eyes drift down to take an illicit peek. Such dissolution would have normally been punished, but there were more urgent matters to attend to, if the doctor would ever play along.

“See--and I mean no offense Mr. Inculta--but, ah, I don’t really know how I feel about trusting you considering the fact Lucius and some of your lackeys have already told me all about you. You know, like lying to the people of Nipton. Then burning them all alive. Or, whatever happened at Searchlight. They, uh, they didn’t really know what happened at Searchlight, though.”

“Because all of the men at Searchlight are dead, Mr. Gannon.”

“Weren’t you there?”

“No.”

Dr. Gannon paused, bit his lip, and cocked his head as though struggling to solve an incredible quandary. The gears turned, the wheels spun, but after a few seconds of the lights refusing to turn on, the doctor seemed to put those thoughts out of his mind.

“Well, if you want _honesty_ and you pinkie-swear not to kill me--which, by the way, I’m not dumb enough to think I’m getting out of this alive--I think your Legion is shit. The Legion is shit, you’re shit, the dead guy up the hill is shit.”

Vulpes scowled internally but struggled to maintain his composure. His trigger finger suddenly felt very restless, his gut quite keen on the idea of reneging on his promise. Still, he had asked for this and should not have been surprised.

“Lucius? Oh, he is basically a walking pile.”

Inhale. Exhale. Count to ten.

“Joshua Graham? A _flaming_ pile.”

Clever, but infuriating still.

“Lanius? I don’t even know the guy but…”

“... He is definitely… _shit_ , Dr. Gannon,” Vulpes finished, tension flooding out of his body. Finally, something the two could agree upon, a segue into where he was wanting to go.

Leaning further over the back of the chair and staring unblinkingly into the doctor’s eyes, Vulpes inhaled sharply and held his breath in an effort to calm his nerves. There was no fear of the profligate, but the realization of what he was doing suddenly dawned on him like the light of day. Antony’s words echoed in the back of his mind. His normally perfect poker face was faltering.

An escape, the houndmaster had said, before Lanius could get to them. It seemed like a horrible idea, but Antony was right, as per usual. What other choice did they have?

“You’re not a fan?” Dr. Gannon asked weakly, with the faintest hint of hope permeating his voice. Vulpes shook his head, both as a response and to clear his mind.

“Lanius is a mistake. Caesar made few, and I do believe I know what he was aiming for by appointing him to such a prestigious title, but the lack of forethought is troubling. Lanius has no business being in his position and lacks the virtue required to lead the Legion now that the son of Mars has left us.”

Now, the lights were on. Blinking, the good doctor leaned back in his seat and cleared his throat. Vulpes would not afford him the chance to talk.

“I will not lie, Dr. Gannon. If this were normal circumstances, your words would merit your death. These are not, however, normal circumstances. With Caesar’s unfortunate demise, the Legion now flies under the banner of a man who is unfit to lead and will make short work of those of us loyal to the ideals of our late lord. So, I come to you with a proposition.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” the doctor drawled.

“Then I will not give you the opportunity. I will simply tell you that I am extending my hand in a truce, to lift you beyond your station and be as equals.”

The doctor smirked insincerely and cocked a brow, snorting, “What? We staging a _coup_?”

“No, Dr. Gannon. I am leaving the Legion. I am offering you the opportunity to go home.”

Silence answered, the faint sound of crickets bleeding in from the outside. Vulpes watched as the slave removed his glasses and clenched his eyes closed, cleaning the lenses on his coat before leaning closer for a better look. He examined his face carefully for any sign of a give, any twitch of the mouth or eye that would have indicated that he was lying, that this was a trick. After a long, tense moment of sizing up his better, the doctor took a deep breath and let out an airy, humorless laugh.

“Sounds too good to be true, Mr. Incul--”

“My name is Vulpes. And I assure you that this is an earnest offer, though it will not be an easy feat to pull off. I merely need to know if you are with us or not?”

“Us?” the doctor echoed. Vulpes said nothing, not feeling terribly inclined to explain himself. He waited patiently as the doctor weighed the decision in his mind, still uncertain as to whether or not this was some manner of snare. Though he felt a deep sense of satisfaction in the sheer amount of dread the profligate was obviously feeling in the face of his terrible might, it was overridden by an unsettling mixture of irritation and fear. Every ounce of him wanted to tell him that, as a slave, he was subject to Vulpes’ will. So long as he sported the collar, he had no say in whether or not he was going to be a human shield.

No sooner had the thought blossomed in his mind did realization began to dawn on the profligate, Vulpes suddenly aware of the fact that his poker face must have fallen. Donning an insincere, frightened smile, the good doctor chuckled and tented his fingers.

“I’m going to take a wild guess and assume I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Well,” Vulpes responded dryly, “I was wishing to give you the illusion of choice, lest you do something idiotic further down the line. But, no, Dr. Gannon. This is not a question. It is a command.”

“You are commanding me to escape the Legion?”

“Yes.”

“After I killed your tyrannical Messiah?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how… _bizarre_ this all sounds?”

“Do you know how much we fear Lanius, profligate?” 

The doctor stared in silence. In a moment of weakness, Vulpes felt his hands beginning to tremble and clutched them together as hard as he could to keep them still . After gawking at Vulpes white-knuckling himself, the doctor heaved out a sigh of resignation. His fingers ruffled through his pale blond hair, which was now a tousled and sweaty mess. There was a darkness in his eyes, his jaw stiff and his face cast with a ghastly pallor.

Inhale. Exhale. He tugged absently at his collar.

“I guess that means I’m in,” he stated after a long, tense pause. “I mean, I don’t have any choice anyway, but you can count on me. Insofar as I last. Which may not be too terribly long.”

Vulpes nodded. He supposed that was the most he could expect from a degenerate.


	7. Chapter 7

After his abduction, Arcade had become painstakingly aware of just how badly he had mucked up the Legion by not reading enough books on neurosurgery. What had initially seemed like a “no good, very bad day” that ended in his own death was quickly revealing itself as being a “no good, catastrophic reign of terror that may last for as long as thirty years.” That  _ also _ ended with his death.

Sitting for half an hour in an isolated, dark room with a man who seemed one loose screw away from collecting severed fingers was not, in fact, Arcade’s idea of a perfect first date. He’d gathered some insight about Vulpes Inculta, he guessed, though most of what he could glean from their meeting was that nobody really wanted to stay on the east bank of the Colorado now that Caesar was gone. Lanius was apparently bad enough that even the most powerful men under that bright, red banner were quick to divorce themselves from their beloved Legion the moment they caught wind of him moving up the food chain. Sure, Mr. New Vegas had been repeating the same horror stories about Lanius for months before his enslavement, but Arcade never would have guessed that he was the sort of evil that made evil itself fold its hand.

Unfortunately, beyond their little chat about their mutual distaste for the new god-emperor, Vulpes’ intentions were as clear as mud. For as devilishly suave as he could be and as articulate as he obviously was, the man had spent the bulk of their time talking in circles. It indicated, at least to Arcade, that he was either paralyzed with terror at the idea of having to face down a literal monster in human skin, or he had no plan and no idea why he even called their meeting. The one thing that was obvious was that Vulpes wanted to escape, he wanted Arcade to escape with him, and--for whatever reason--Vulpes needed Arcade to bring a bunch of slaves along for the ride.

Why? Who knew? Arcade severely doubted it had anything to do with a change of heart and goodwill towards men, but Vulpes was the one with the gun and Arcade was the one rigged to explode if he said “no.”

Aside from that, there was some prattle about some secret meeting at some secret clubhouse and a vague indication that Arcade was invited. He remembered that bit pretty clearly, too, because he found it funny that the first time he’d ever been asked to hang out with the “cool kids” was about forty-eight hours before he was left dead in a lake.

Once he agreed to the terms and conditions, he was then scooped up, carted away, handed off to a couple of rough young men in skirts, and thrown into the slave tents. The sleeping masses scattered like radroaches at the sight and sound of a squealing thirty-five-year-old man being chucked into a pile of indentured dirt farmers, and they gawked wide-eyed at him when he hit the ground and lay there, groaning, for way longer than what was appropriate. 

Whereas they’d all been wary of him before, either hating or pitying him, seeing him throttled by slavers seemed to open their hearts, if only a tad. When Arcade opened his eyes and found his glasses, which had landed a good six inches away from the rest of him, he found himself looking up at the worried, accepting faces of a half dozen mud-smeared servants. Apparently, getting manhandled was a rite of passage in these parts, and witnessing it was proof that he wasn’t anyone’s favorite anymore.

Guess that meant everyone was friends now.

“Are you okay?” 

It was a woman, heavily pregnant with the kind of glowing skin and thick hair that only hormones could offer. Arcade grumbled in response. It wasn’t English, it wasn’t Latin--heck, it wasn’t even words--but it was close enough to a sound of affirmation that she backed off.

“No bruising. Nothing broken.”

Another female voice. Older, and heavily accented. When he finally made eye contact, he realized it was the same tribal woman who’d been gathered around the bandit’s bounty earlier in the night. The one who was bothered by his staring.

“Mm. Vulpes finally found a tent helper.”

Male. Mocking. Reminded Arcade of being in school in Navarro. It was the sort of tone that usually preceded getting his glasses stomped on.

“Oh, come on now. You know Vulpes doesn’t have tent helpers.”

Arcade huffed a labored breath and sat up like the living dead, the men and women crowded around him flinching back out of instinct. After attempting to slick back his hair and fix his face, he looked at each and every one of his newfound neighbors. They regarded him, he regarded them, and the entire time a highlight reel of the evening just kept playing on a loop in his head.

Pinching the bridge of his nose and clenching his eyes shut, Arcade made a groaning sound that would have easily been mistaken as a brahmin call. There wasn’t a part of him that knew whether the day had played out in his favor or not. On one hand, this whole thing would allegedly end with him being released into the wild like an animal at the tail end of a heartwarming kid’s movie. On the other, he didn’t trust anyone in red on the eastern side of the Colorado as far as he could throw them, which wasn’t very far. Or at all.

“Are you hurt?” the pregnant slave asked, stooping down on her hands and knees with great difficulty. Arcade shook his head but never opened his eyes or looked up. He just had to assume the other lady was kneeling next to him as well based on a vague sixth sense and the smell of jalapenos and manure that now haunted the air.

“Are you…  _ hurt _ ?” 

There were implications in that inflection that Arcade didn’t want to think about, so he didn’t. Instead, he finally looked to the first lady and tried to put on as much charm as he could manage while filled to the brim with terror and bewilderment.

“I’m fine,” he promised. “Well, ah, as fine as somebody can be in this situation. Which isn’t very.”

“Yeah, he’s fine,” the male voice stated. The crowd began to settle around him like children called to story time. None of the newfound attention was desired, nor was the fact that the sight of a handful of curious slaves seemed to attract even more of their ilk. As much as he pitied them and wanted the best for them, being the central attraction of any given room wasn’t exactly his forte even the best of times, let alone when suffering from a bad case of Pre-Crucifiction-itis. Or Soon-To-Be-Riddled-Full-of-Holes-enza. It all depended on how he answered Vulpes’ demands, really.

“So, if you’re not Vulpes’ tent helper, then what was that all about?” the pregnant woman asked curiously, reaching out to dab a bit of sweat off of Arcade’s face. The gesture was kind but disgusting, since she was doing the dabbing with what appeared to be a ripped piece of her own heavily soiled shirt.

“Nothing,” Arcade sputtered. “It was nothing.”

“A man of his stature doesn’t just talk to you if it’s nothing.”

“Well, they do if you’re as handsome and charming as me.” Arcade paused. “And that totally did not help what your friend was thinking, did it?”

“We’re not friends,” the male growled. The woman disregarded him with a finesse that was nothing short of classy.

“So, Vulpes has no interest in you at all?”

There was a beat of silence. Arcade’s mouth twisted into a tight smile as he nodded his head to the side and coughed up a laugh that was both hammy and pitiful. A roll of the hand in the air, gesturing up the hill from the slave tents to the miraculous tarp palace of the Tyrant Formerly Known As Caesar, and there seemed to be a wave of realization wash over at least a quarter of his audience.

“Well, maybe he had something to say about the fact I killed the local god.  _ Maybe _ . Because, uh, the new god is not very…”

“Lanius,” the tribal woman stated in a hushed whisper. The silence that enveloped the tents was deafening, and the looks on the faces of the men, women, and children around him made his heart hurt. All of them look betrayed somehow, like he’d personally gone out of his way to make things difficult. It wasn’t as though he’d been dragged to Fortification Hill against his will despite stating multiple times that he had no idea what in the hell he was doing.

“You killed Caesar? And Lanius is…  _ oh god _ .”

The pregnant woman fell back, throwing her hands over her mouth in terror. Quiet gave way to worried whispers, the women in particular raising to a higher and higher volume as they began to chatter about the hell their life was going to become. Frantically, the more reserved of the slaves tried to hush them, spitting warnings about what would go down if their not-so-kindly neighbors decided to file a noise complaint. Arcade himself felt small, an oddity considering how he’d not had that luxury since puberty.

As he watched the quiet chaos building around him, Arcade’s mind drifted back yet again to Vulpes and the weather station, back to being told that his only option from this moment forward was to help some guys get as far away from Lanius as the Mojave would allow. Or, more likely, he was going to be used as an easily disposable body that could take a bullet in the stead of somebody actually useful, like one of Vulpes’ Legion friends. He couldn’t think of any other reason he’d been told he had to go.

More importantly, he thought of the insinuation of more slaves being smuggled out. More cannon fodder for Lanius to mow down. At first, his anger flared, but as he watched the commotion happening around him, he wondered.

Vulpes obviously didn’t give a damn about the slaves that served his dead master, but maybe, just maybe, life would be better as cannon fodder than cattle. After all, if they did make it to the other side, a world of opportunity and freedom awaited them. Surely the Legion left behind couldn’t gun every last one of them down, and surely if he managed to convince enough of them to leave they would outnumber whatever petty party Vulpes assembled to make the trip westward. There would be no way in hell they could keep them as property in NCR territory anyway, not with the way the Rangers and locals dealt with that kind of garbage.

Freedom, or death. Either would be preferable to Lanius.

“What are we going to do?” the pregnant woman whimpered, tears welling in her eyes. “There’s nowhere to go. We can’t run away!”

“Maybe we can,” Arcade answered. All eyes turned to him as a crooked, sheepish smile crossed his face. There was a glimmer of hope in a few sets of eyes, though probably nothing that matched the hope he suddenly felt bubbling inside of himself.

“Yeah,” he repeated dreamily. “Yeah, maybe  _ we can _ .”


	8. Chapter 8

The perk of being so high up on the Legion food chain was the chance to have actual solitude. Most legionaries were crammed three to a tent meant for a single man, with the occasional slave slipped inside to satisfy the needs of a frisky recruit. Vulpes, however, was afforded space of his own, a dark corner where he could rest his head and clear his mind, far away from the men who called him “sir.”

The flaps of the tent fluttered in the breeze, the sound of crackling fires and cazador wings haunting the air like whispering ghosts. Beyond the faint glow of flames shining through the occasional gaps in the billowing walls, the world was bathed in shadows that were so dark that he could not tell if his eyes were open or closed. In the distance, war drums beat and fire crackled, muffled footsteps crunching through the sands as Legion men wandered to and fro. Vulpes closed his eyes and rested a hand on his forehead, trying to will away a headache that was beginning to flare. It was probably stress, he figured, but there was a small part of him that hoped he’d suffer the same fate as Caesar.

He hadn’t felt so helpless since his childhood, when he was wrangled up by a decanus and marched across the rocky, dry valleys of his homeland. They’d walked for days, resting on cardboard in the open wilderness, unprotected by anything but their own keen senses. The Legion’s leadership saw it fit to let the children fend for themselves, agoraphobic kids unused to the vastness of the Utah. Vulpes could vividly remember the harrowing trek to Arizona: little ones picked off by coyotes and wild dogs, trying to sleep while listening to the snapping of bones and the gnawing of flesh. Never in his life had he been so certain of his own demise.

Until now.

His eyes snapped open when he heard shuffling outside his tent, not that it did him much good in the darkness. Head tilting instinctively toward the sound, he waited as something tugged at the fabric in a desperate bid to find the entrance. It was confusing to observe considering how obvious the opening was, but whoever was trying to get the drop on him did not seem to be the most intelligent of people or, more likely, was not in the best state of mind. If the latter was the case, Vulpes had a fairly good idea of who it was.

Patiently, he waited, his mouth a thin, tight line. The attempted intruder fell to the ground on the opposite side of the burlap, and the sound of shifting dirt hinted at their new plan. More firelight spilled into the dark as one of the stakes was pulled free and his visitor crawled underneath with a less-than-melodious grunt. A tribal curse spilled from their lips. They were plunged into blackness as gravity pulled the gap closed.

Vulpes remained silent. The tell-tale sound of a flip lighter revealed the mystery figure before it even illuminated his face.

“Antony, what are you doing?”

The lighter sprang to life as the haunting visage of Antony stared at him from the middle of the shadows.

“Came to talk. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s not. Get out.”

Rather than listen, Antony settled down cross legged in front of him as though visiting for drinks and gossip. Realizing the futility of his situation, Vulpes sat up and reached to his side for his lantern. He twisted the knob and it clicked to life, the bulb within buzzing and flickering. It did nothing to help his headache.

“Nah,” Antony responded dismissively. “I wanted to see if you--”

“Spoke to the doctor about our elaborate suicide? Yes.”

Antony chuckled in response, but there were nerves behind it, a fear that he’d barely had when he first brought up the plan. It did nothing to settle Vulpes’ own anxieties, and he became disgusted with himself as he watched his visitor present a cigarette and felt the urge to ask for a hit.

“What did you tell him?” Antony asked.

“Lanius is coming. We are running. He was to meet with us on the morrow. Bring as many slaves to escape as possible. He doesn’t have a choice in the matter.”

“And he said?”

“That the Legion was ‘shit’ and he would probably die.”

“But he’s coming?”

“As I said, Antony. I told him he did not have a choice.”

In record speed, Antony’s cigarette disappeared into rancid ash. The air was hazy with foul-smelling smoke that, again, did nothing to ease the pressure behind Vulpes’ eyes. When Antony reached for a second, Vulpes lashed out like a nightstalker and stole it away, pitching it out of arm’s reach and hoping that the houndmaster got the hint. 

He did not.

“Well, good. ‘Cause we’re gonna need a doctor. I spoke to Phelix--you know, the explorer that was helping Picus?--and he, uh, he offered to give me some of his maps and notes and shit and it ain’t… it ain’t looking pretty from what he says.”

“I could have told you that,” Vulpes said flatly, watching as Antony floundered for his flung cigarette. The irritation in him was mounting, anger reaching a fevered pitch, but Vulpes was nothing if not a master of his own emotions. Brain pulsing inside his skull and fists balling at his side, he steadied his breathing and became mindful of his throbbing heart. He counted to ten, his expression never twitching.

“Yeah, well Phelix is coming with us now ‘cause when he heard Lanius was boss? His first response was, ‘I should have just stayed with the profligates.’ He is so pissed that he walked back into this.”

“You also said that Lucullus was coming?”

“Mm-hm. And Agapius and Hector. And, well, Phelix. Duh. We’ve been thinking of trying to get into communication with Severus, too, but fuck. He’s over there with Aurelius and Aurelius isn’t gonna side with us for nothing. You know, not until goddamn Lanius comes waltzing into the Cove and finds all the smuggled beer and cigarettes he’s got laying around. Then he’s gonna wish he ran west with us, you know?”

The cigarette was lit and Vulpes fished beneath his armor for his undershirt, bringing the collar over his nose in hopes it would block at least a bit of the smell.

“So, it looks as though the pieces are falling into place,” Vulpes muttered. “So long as you still wish to go through with this.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Antony demanded defensively.

“Because, as stated earlier, this is just a very elaborate suicide.”

“And still a better alternative than waiting for Lanius. If you didn’t agree with it, you wouldn’t have been on board this far. And even if this is gonna get every last one of us killed, what would you prefer? Crucifixion?  _ Decimatio _ ? Or just getting shot in the back and floating down river?”

Vulpes did not respond, instead narrowing his eyes and reaching for his lantern. The light clicked off. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was done.

“You’ll be at the weather station tomorrow night, right?” Antony called from the darkness. The end of his cigarette glowed in the blackness, looking like a demon’s eye floating in the void.

“I suppose I have no choice.”

“You bring the doctor, I bring Phelix’s maps. Deal?”

“Again, what choice do I have?”

Antony hesitated before snorting, “You’re beginning to sound like one of the slaves, Vulpes.”

“Perhaps I am.”

Silence blanketed the tent, heavy and suffocating, as Vulpes settled back down on the ground and Antony polished off his smoke. Left with that sentiment to mull over, the houndmaster grunted a goodbye and shuffled out the way he came, leaving Vulpes alone at long last. Heart hammering in his chest, Vulpes closed his eyes and waved the lingering smoke out of his face, struggling to ignore the pain in his head as it spread to his chest, to his stomach.

He was no stranger to anxiety. Life in the Legion had a way of making one nervous about everything, for all the bravery the men touted. Yet, he had never been so certain of his own demise before. For all he knew, and for all he believed, the curtain was finally closing on Vulpes Inculta.


	9. Chapter 9

Arcade watched a lot of holotapes when he was a kid. While most folks in the wasteland were stuck with the kind that just played sound and didn’t have much substance, the Enclave was chock full of all kinds of neat variants like projector holotapes that produced actual holograms and terminals that, when a holotape was inserted, could play full motion pictures like he was watching an old world television. It was one of his passions while growing up, especially considering that being an Enclave kid didn’t leave much time for things like “playing” and “socialization.”

In his teens, he was big on heist flicks in particular, movies where gangsters in zoot suits and fedoras gathered around the table and discussed their master plan for half the running time. Smoke filled the air and whiskey sat in glasses next to hands weighed down with fancy rings, maps and notes spread out in front of the leader as he gave some spiel about getting in and out in a jiffy. The nay-sayers would voice any concerns that somebody could argue was a plothole and cooler heads would respond that everything would work out fine. The camera would zoom in on the villain at the head of the table, he’d break the fourth wall by making a bit of cheeky eye contact, and the next scene would be a bank full of frantic civilians screaming over a wailing alarm.

The meeting with Vulpes and his fellow future escapees was frighteningly similar.

Instead of zoot suits and fedoras, they all wore cobbled together sporting gear and ragged leather skirts, goggles and bandanas and crests of feathers. A dark room had been replaced with a creaking weather monitoring station lined with broken terminals and abandoned work desks. While there was smoke, it was from a strange and intoxicating incense that had a bizarre, spicy odor mixed with astringent, and nobody had dared to sneak in alcohol of any kind. They sipped river water out of washed beer bottles whose labels had probably disintegrated before their grandfathers first drew breath.

But, the table was there, and so were the men around it with papers piled high and their fingers tented in concentration. Arcade had half expected Vulpes to be the top banana in the room, but the figurehead playing the role of the criminal mastermind was an unfamiliar face who was as attractive as he was grating. A strong, broad man with intense, piercing eyes sat at the end of the table, fists clenched under his chin and his gaze darting from one hand drawn map to the next. Everything about him was unconventionally beautiful until he opened his mouth, releasing a sound Arcade could only describe as “if the gate to the Fort learned English.”

“This isn’t going to work, Antony,” a familiar legionnaire growled. Arcade recalled him from his introductory boat ride and his trip with Vulpes to the gate, a monstrously tall gentleman who was the kind of pale that made himself look like a bronzed beauty. The man at the head of the table--Antony, Arcade presumed--didn’t say anything in response. Rather, he quirked a brow, scowled, and slowly raised a one-fingered salute that was both universal  _ and _ practical.

“Peace, Lucullus,” Vulpes responded, his voice level but his expression annoyed. “Let Antony say whatever it is he’s going to say.”

There was a pause, silence stretching on for what seemed like an eternity as Antony gathered up papers, rearranged them, stood up, sat down, twisted maps in his hands, and finally took a cigarette out of his boot. Suddenly, Arcade understood what the incense was for. Let no loyalist know that there was sinful tobacco in the house of Caesar.

“You know, if he says anything,” a scrawny stranger in sunglasses snarled. He, too, was greeted with the sight of a magnificent bird resting at the end of Antony’s arm. It looked like the species was making a comeback.

“I’ll talk,” Antony croaked, “once I’m damn well ready to talk.”

“Temper,” Vulpes warned.

“Fuck you, too.”

Despite the harsh words, Antony scooted closer to Vulpes with a smattering of pages in hand. Being positioned directly next to them, Arcade got a good show of the goings on, his eyes widening at the maps scrawled across the papers clenched in Antony’s fist. As he placed them down, one by one, Arcade couldn’t help but be stunned by just how accurate each one was, all of them part of a large puzzle that essentially drew out the “where” of damn near every settlement and landmark Arcade had heard of in the Mojave. Some of them he didn’t recognize at all, like vaults and radio towers and booby-trapped No Man’s Lands that he supposed would be beneficial for a legionnaire to know about.

As he tried to figure out the importance of places like “profligate minefield” and “irradiated trench,” Antony began to trace his hands over the area surrounding their current home. As he did, the others in the room clustered around like drunks watching a bar fight, invading Arcade’s personal bubble with waves of oppressive hate and the stench of countless marches between showers.

“So, I wanna run this by you, because you know the land of the dissolute better than any of us,” Antony sighed, clapping Vulpes on the shoulder. “Like, I’ve already ruled out just going straight across because, well…”

“Camp Golf. Hoover Dam. Boulder City. A shore infested with lakelurks,” Vulpes sighed. “There’s not many options in that direction, hence necessitating the use of Lucullus’ barge to the south of the dam.”

Slowly, Vulpes picked up the sections of the map that showed the Fort, Lake Mead, and the NCR controlled outposts dotting the other side. Behind his eyes, Arcade could see that the hamster was running as fast as its little furry body could carry it. 

As he sat the maps back down, Arcade reached for them, earnestly surprised that nobody stopped him. Instead, Antony and Vulpes regarded him with a sort of curiosity, waiting to see if the degenerate had anything of interest to add. Though they continued talking normally, as though there wasn’t a slave rifling through their important documents, their eyes kept drifting in his direction.

“You could walk down river,” Arcade stated bluntly. He said it before he realized he probably spoke out of turn, and continued to be impressed by the restraint his hosts were showing. Instead of scoffing or hacking his head off, Antony calmly reached over and plucked the papers out of Arcade’s hands with a nod.

“Yeah, that’s actually what I was thinking. Lucullus’ ferry only runs up to, like… here.”

With a gentleness unbecoming of a soldier, Antony turned Arcade’s head toward a separate part of the map and tapped his finger on a small area south of the Hoover Dam. Across the river was a heavily scribbled area that had been repeatedly relabeled by the creator. He could suppose it was an area the Legion had gained and lost a handful of times. Nelson, if he had to guess. Before he was snagged, he’d heard through the caravan grapevine that it was now in Legion hands. Novac had nearly wet itself in collective terror, and the Courier had said he’d run afoul of some moody rangers planning an attack downwind from the little shantytown.

Arcade scowled. He didn’t want to think about  _ him _ .

“It’s pretty standard fare to, you know, walk a few miles south and hitch a ride to the Cove. Which I… guess you would know since you’re here,” Antony drawled, punctuating each syllable with a tap of his finger. “There’s just one slight problem in that, ah, we got to walk past…”

“This,” one of the nameless legionnaires chimed, reaching past both Antony and Arcade to point out a very clearly labeled blob to the northeast of the intended destination. The symbol for it was not one he recognized, but the word written over top was clear as day. It was just one, penned in red ink, and circled vandalistically as if a madman had been given a marker.

All it said was “LANIUS.” Antony (or somebody) had made the less wordy addition of a frowny face beside it.

“Lanius isn’t even in the Mojave,” Vulpes mulled aloud. Antony responded with a roll of his eyes.

“Yeah, that we know of.”

“Do you doubt my intel?”

“Man, I doubt a lot of shit about you. No offense.”

The air grew thick with tension, none of which Antony was picking up on. Arcade, however, knew the feeling well; detecting impending throwdowns was a sixth sense he’d developed after years of having to break up quarreling junkies in Freeside. He wasn’t sure if he’d have the strength to stand between two dangerous men who’d been honed into machines of murder, especially since he barely had the backbone to pry shrieking, alcoholic teen moms off of one another in his past life. Perhaps a more tempered, preventative approach was called for.

“In his defense, you really shouldn’t leave this sort of thing to chance. It’s always a good idea to take into account  _ everything _ that could go wrong,” Arcade piped. Antony gestured at him furiously in a show of extreme agreement, and a few murmurs of solidarity passed through the group. Obviously outnumbered, Vulpes recognized he’d been defeated and loosened his posture a bit. The universe had smiled upon Arcade on this day.

“Lanius _ is _ notoriously bad for communicating his position efficiently,” Vulpes conceded reluctantly, his voice weighing heavy with offense. “He feels it is a waste of time. Which I suppose means that he could be closer than my informants are aware, though he is officially to the north near the Utah quelling tribals and looking for…”

Vulpes trailed off. Apparently, however he planned to finish that sentence was a touch too touchy for the peanut gallery. After a few moments for them to think about what he’d almost said, they sputtered back to life as though the hiccup had never happened.

“All I am saying is that it  _ is _ a possibility,” he recovered. “It would make sense for him to be in the area considering how close Caesar was to marching his troops west. However, it clashes with everything my men knew and everything Caesar told me before his passing.”

“Yeah, but Caesar wouldn’t have threatened to march west if Lanius wasn’t nearby. So, I’m gonna just assume that the sooner we get out, the better,” Antony continued, hovering over Arcade like an angry god. His chest was against his back, his arms slammed on the table on either side of him, the odor of dogs and xenophobia filling Arcade’s nostrils with a musky, salty smell that made him want to yak up the pinyon nuts he’d scavenged earlier in the day. He comforted himself in knowing that, even if he smelled bad and sounded like a broken food processor, at least he seemed friendly by Legion standards.

“If he’s closer than we think,” Antony continued, “then we need to act like we don’t have much time to spare. Get all our shit and get the fuck out. Wham, bam, thank-you ma’am. Fuck this place over like a two denarii whore.”

Arcade watched as Vulpes bristled, his stoicism replaced with concern. The dark circles beneath his eyes suddenly looked darker, his eyes like ice in empty sockets. He scrunched up his nose and tapped his fingers on the table worriedly, eyes darting from page to page of the map sitting before him. The other legionnaires seemed absolutely oblivious to the obvious reservations the man had, but Arcade didn’t have to try hard to scent them out. 

The man was scared. Scared and, if he had to guess, mortified by the implication that they needed to move fast. This was a man who had obviously exercised care and caution over every aspect of his life, a survivalist whose main priority was keeping his head and body firmly connected. All of the uncertainty and guesswork was bad enough for his nerves, but the very thought of having to hurry was enough to paralyze.

“How much planning time do you want to sacrifice based on the assumption Lanius has prematurely begun to head this way?” Vulpes asked in a slow, worried tone. Antony finally stopped suffocating Arcade long enough to take a seat between them, throwing his arm around the frumentarius’ shoulder like they were old, dear friends. Judging from the fact he didn’t immediately find himself intimately acquainted with a machete, Arcade ventured a guess that maybe the two actually  _ were _ close. 

“It’s not going to be a complicated escape, so I was figuring we could leave soon. Like, maybe tomorrow soon.”

Vulpes responded with a look of utter incredulousness, and expression that screamed “you are an idiot” louder than any voice ever could.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Antony?”

Unfazed, Antony shook his head and suddenly it was Arcade’s turn to be buddy-buddy with the guy. A strong, manly arm was wrapped around him as he was dragged into the legionnaire’s armpit. Headlocked and far too flabby to put up much of a fight, he figured the best way to deal with the situation would be to breathe out of his mouth and wait for it all to blow over.

“Come on, Vulpes. We don’t need a big, elaborate plan. We just need to get out of the gate and…”

“... Sprint miles south to the cursor dock and hope we don’t get shot?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“That is  _ not _ a plan. That is  _ suicide _ .”

“Isn’t being in the Legion suicide, basically?” Arcade piped, once again wielding his wit like a sword against himself. The grip on him tightened as Antony considered breaking his neck, though one of the nameless soldiers eventually chuckled to break the tension instead.

“Basically,” he responded with the faintest hint of amusement. Antony’s grip loosened.

“We need to think this through,” Vulpes argued, shaking his head furiously. “We cannot cut corners where our lives are involved. I know the chances of our survival is slim, but the goal should be to maximize our odds or else we’re just wasting energy on what could be accomplished by drinking antifreeze before Lanius gets here. There must be some kind of plan--”

“Well, if we had all the time in the world, we could let you think of something,” Antony growled in response. “As it stands, we don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, but I value my life too much to gamble with ‘what if.’ What this comes down to is that we either cut our losses and run while chaos is high and Lanius is AWOL, or we sit here writing notes and talking about our feelings while he comes skipping through the gates. And in that last scenario, we’d be so fucked that you could use our assholes as beer cozies.”

“That is an awful analogy.”

“And you’re really fucking bad at emergency situations, man. Listen to your gut instead of your fucking fear for once. You used to be real good at thinking on your feet until Caesar gave you that cushy position next to his throne.”

The frumentarius’ pallor gave way to something that was either sunburn or a volatile cocktail of embarrassment and rage. While the others in the room were respectfully quiet and tried to pretend the exchange had never happened, he was quick to note the aghast look on Arcade’s face and locked eyes with him in an unblinking show of dominance. No words needed to be spoken for him to understand the orders being beamed at him from his withering gaze.

The demand was simple. Arcade needed to say something to defend Vulpes’ honor. If he wasn’t strapped with a bomb, he wouldn’t have had any inclination to do anything but laugh at the guy. Still, it was probably best to play along for the sake of survival.

“I think you have a right to be worried, so I wouldn’t take that personally,” Arcade offered with some uncertainty. “That said, I have no strong opinion because I’m going to die no matter what. I don’t know if you need a human shield or my coat to use as a white flag of surrender, but there’s a ninety-nine percent chance I’m gonna wash up on the shores of Cottonwood Cove with a bullet in my face instead of a song in my heart. And knowing my luck, in the one percent chance that I make it? I will be struck by lightning as soon as I hit the opposite bank.”

Then, as if he hadn’t already secured himself a one-way ticket to an execution, he gestured vaguely at the audience and sighed.

“Why not settle it democratically?” he suggested. “I know you guys don’t know how to have much of an opinion since your opinions have always been made for you, but this is good practice for life on the outside.”

Each of the men looked at each other with uncertainty, like they were trying to parse together what “democratically” meant and were coming up short. Antony thankfully untangled himself from Arcade, standing up in a grand, sweeping gesture before taking a pose that bordered on Napoleonic and pacing back to the head of the table. Vulpes glowered at him all the while, still committed enough to stay though he obviously now had some strong regrets about his involvement. Judging from how he refused to look at his favorite captive, it was obvious he’d developed some reservations about saving Arcade, too.

Arms folded behind his back and chest puffed out like a rooster, Antony tried to make himself look bigger, as if he could somehow out-tall the ferryman in the corner. Not even Arcade could do that, and he’d made a habit of out-talling everyone he knew.

“Slave says we should vote on it,” Antony barked, probably louder than he intended. “So, we’re voting. On one end, we got me, who says we should probably take our chances bolting south to Lucullus’ ferry so we can ride that sucker down to… ah… here.”

He bent over the table and placed a finger on a blank swathe of land south of Nelson, earning some appreciative nods from those in attendance. Everyone but Vulpes, Arcade noticed, who had seemingly shut down in the face of what he felt was paralyzing stupidity. He stared through Antony and into the wall, and if he hadn’t been breathing Arcade would have assumed he’d died.

“We go here, we slip inland, and if some profligate shows up  _ en route _ , we show off our freed slave collection and throw up our hands in surrender. Because I don’t know if there’s any neutral territory left on this fuckin’ river.”

“There’s not,” Vulpes responded coldly, breaking his silence. “Except for cazador hives and deathclaw nests”

“Yeah, cool. Let’s not get immediately killed by cazadors,” Antony continued dismissively. “Basically, we need to get out as soon as possible. Vulpes just admitted that Lanius is awful at communicating his whereabouts and could be dangerously close. On the flip side…”

“I say we think about this longer than a quick glance at a piece of paper and a half hour meeting where you just joyously exclaim that we’re leaving,” Vulpes stated. “This is our lives in the balance, and time taken to minimize the danger we face would be well worth the investment. You  _ just now _ arbitrarily picked a point to cross without taking into consideration what waits on the other side. Maps only show you borders. Most of you have not been on the profligate side of the river, nor do you know the geography, the wildlife, the--”

“All in favor of me, say ‘aye,’” Antony interrupted, throwing up a hand. There was no hesitation as a chorus of “ayes” answered back from around the table, barring Arcade and an obviously confused ferryman. There was no cooldown period where people talked about their decisions or gave Vulpes the opportunity to explain himself. Arcade stared at the look of utter defeat Vulpes now wore as maps and notes were gathered, Antony blathered about leaving the following night, and everyone congratulated each other on a job well done. If he hadn’t believed the Legion was full of short-sighted savages before, this probably would have been an eye-opening moment.

And it apparently was for Vulpes who, as the weather station emptied and Antony clapped him on the shoulder with a few parting words of wisdom, looked to Arcade and shook his head like a scandalized housewife. It was a real bonding moment between the two, cooped up in the dark with no innate desire to be anywhere near each other, now both wholly convinced that they were surrounded by crazy and going to die in an unfortunate fashion. Time was ticking down for them like a countdown on a bomb.

Speaking of, Arcade bristled as Vulpes silently reached out for his collar, hooping his fingers under the metal clasp and tugging hard. He expected a flash of light and then some pearly gates, but was instead treated to a faint click and the clatter of it falling to the ground. Sighing heavily, Vulpes slowly stood from where he sat and looked out onto the empty room, refusing to meet Arcade’s gaze. It was a far cry from their meeting in that same room the night before.

“Tomorrow then, Dr. Gannon,” he said emotionlessly, before turning to leave as well. “Good night.”

Arcade watched him, bewildered, as he shuffled out of the room. Without the explosives an inch from his face, he could see the man with new clarity: young, overworked, underfed, neurotic, sore and… scared. It was humanizing, but in a way that made him uncomfortable and twisted his stomach into knots. He didn’t really like the idea of feeling sympathy for the devil, especially when he’d done nothing to earn it in the slightest. At the end of the day, Vulpes was an evil mass murderer who was trying to yank freedom out of the hands of tribals, settlers, and soldiers alike.

Yet, as he opened the door and Arcade watched his silhouette slump in the glow of the moon and the fires, his heart sank. Sometimes, he forgot that the men of the Legion didn’t have a choice, and that under all of that bullshit Caesar force fed them, they were humans. They had feelings. They were slaves, just like the sad people in the tent. Arcade’s collar may have been on the floor, but Vulpes was still very much wearing his.


	10. Chapter 10

The entire day had been filled with furtive glances and Antony assuring him that everything would turn out fine. From the moment the sun rose and the soldiers of Fortification Hill stumbled from their tents, the fort became a game of chess, one in which Vulpes was not being included. Perhaps he was already set where he needed to be, a forgotten knight poised for checkmate, but the fact he wasn’t in the know drove him mad.

As the sun faded in the sky, things slowly became clearer. Nobody had spoken a word to him, but by the power of observation, he came to discern what was happening. Legionaries led slaves outside gradually over the course of the day, meaningless gunshots ringing loud beyond the fort’s walls before the soldiers returned alone and free of blood. Lucullus, ever stationed by the gate, sabotaged the closing mechanism so that there was always a slight gap, one that the praetorian guards were too stupid and impatient to fix. Notes were exchanged in passing via sleight of hand that would have made a New Vegas magician do a double-take, and impressed Vulpes enough that he wondered how none of them had been recruited as frumentarii.

The sky was black when a note finally made its way to him. Scrawled on the inside of a worn cover to an old magazine, written in a mixture of fading ink and dark graphite, were instructions from his old friend and current ringmaster. Go south, it said, to where the slaves had been stowed and there they would begin their trek to freedom.

Amid cricket chirps and crackling flames, Vulpes caved and did as he was bid. He slipped past the guards, through the gap in the gate, and made his way south off of the beaten trail. He vanished into the darkness, boots crunching on the sand, squinting into the night as he struggled to find his way. It felt odd, feeling so helpless. With his mind muddled with doubts, he wasn’t certain he’d make it to where he needed to be, both common sense and direction dulled by anxiety.

If not for the sound of hushed chatter and the faint glow of embers, he may have wandered forever. And even when he caught a glimpse of a huddled mass beneath a rocky outcropping, he half believed it to be profligates who’d come to attack in a moment of weakness. What he saw when he stepped into the light was not a gathering of legionaries and a smattering of slaves, but a small army in which the legionaries were outnumbered three-to-one by their own property, his brothers looking as lost and frightened as prisoners of war.

And in the middle of the mob, closest to the dying flames, was Antony, his favorite cur, and the good doctor.

“Took you long enough,” Antony growled. The pile of fur beside him wriggled and whined. The doctor made a strange whining noise himself, though Vulpes made the educated guess that he had choked on his own words.

“I don’t remember this many slaves being smuggled out,” Vulpes stated with a cock of an eyebrow. This time, the doctor remembered his mother tongue, a proud but weak smile appearing on his face. He remained seated even as Antony and the other legionaries clambered to their feet, and his voice was almost lost amidst the shuffling of gear.

“Well, the gate isn’t the only way to escape.” 

He stared at Vulpes expectantly, but it wasn’t until he began pantomiming at the dirt that he understood what the doctor meant. He had dug under the fence, a feat likely made easier by the fact he had Legion men to cover for him. What a simple but effective solution.

Around him, the mass of slaves began to stir. With the legionaries obviously about to be on the move, they took the wordless cue to follow suit. His eyes drifted from one vaguely familiar face to the next--a pregnant woman, a little girl, an old tribal lady, a grumpy teenage boy--then back to his brothers as they strapped themselves with machetes and double-checked packs of healing poultices and rations. When he eventually circled back around to Dr. Gannon, he noted just how pleased he appeared to be as he, too, monitored his brothers in binds. Given how quickly he picked up on Vulpes’ ruse when offered a chance at escape, he wondered why exactly he seemed so damn proud of himself. He was sending these slaves to die.

“Phelix brought the maps,” Antony interrupted, and Vulpes’ gaze jerked back toward him. “We, ah, ran into a bit of an issue, though.”

Vulpes blinked, but said nothing. He didn’t need to. Judging from the way the houndmaster flushed with embarrassment, it was safe to say that uttering “I told you so” would not be necessary. 

“You see, ah, Phelix didn’t… I mean, okay, he forgot to bring up the fact that the place we’re wanting to go is, ah…”

“A no man’s land at the top of the cliffs?” Vulpes finished, crossing his arms. “Had you half a mind to listen last night, I could have told you that.”

“You knew?” Antony snapped. Vulpes again said nothing, instead settling for a withering stare, the likes of which would have sent his former subordinates reeling. It had a much less intense effect on Antony, who simply raked a hand through his hair and averted his gaze, which he traced to an angry looking Cursor Lucullus at the far end of the mob.

“It’s not the only problem we ran into,” the houndmaster continued. “We, ah, overestimated how many people can fit on Lucullus’ barge. I mean, it’s a stupid raft. There ain’t no way we’re fitting everyone on.”

“Did you try?” Vulpes asked. Antony shook his head.

“No. Lucullus took one look at all the slaves your doctor brought--”

“He is not  _ my _ doctor.”

“--and said there ain’t no fuckin’ way. No way he’s doing multiple trips, either. We ain’t got that kind of time.”

“You  _ think _ we don’t have that kind of time,” Vulpes corrected. “In any case, why not send some of the slaves back?”

Again, Antony’s face shifted, and the expression was worrying. Vulpes narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing his friend and looking for any tic that would tell him what the houndmaster was hiding. There was reluctance, nervousness, fear bordering on paranoia. Finally, he gestured at the slaves and groaned.

“I… I can’t.”

“This is not the time to be sentimental, Antony.”

“It’s not sentiment. Fuck, the Hangdogs were as big of slavers as the Legion. I’ve grown up owning people my whole life and I ain’t the type to give a damn about them. The problem lies in… well…”

“Well?”

“Well, they’ve threatened to rat us out if we send ‘em back. And Lucius is not Lanius, but I still don’t want to have a fuckton of praetorians coming to collect our heads, you know? Personal preference.”

Vulpes scowled, snarling, “Then kill them.”

“Oh, yeah. Cool. We could do that. They outnumber us, they could make a lot of loud and attention-grabbing noises, they could scatter and make it back to the fort before we could. I’m sure there’s a lot of ways this could work out in our favor. I mean, what was that you said yesterday about thinking things through? Because I thought this through.”

“I hate you.”

“Oh man, you and me both right now.”

The slaves stirred, obviously not keen on being spoken about so candidly. Even the good doctor, once all pride and smiles, looked a little unnerved and more than a touch irritated. Vulpes sighed heavily and reached for the maps in Antony’s hand, making sure to glower at each and every piece of property that glared back at him, before raising Phelix’s precious documents above his head. Legionary and servant alike watched in horror as he ripped them in half and let the fragments flutter to the ground.

“Very well, then. I suppose I take the lead from here.”

A wave of protest answered him, but Vulpes never flinched. Every muscle in his body was taut with anger and worry, pain sparking in his head as he counted his breaths and struggled to keep his composure. Had his words not fallen on deaf ears the night before, so much trouble could have been avoided. An already suicidal plan would not have somehow become worse.

At least, if he took the helm, he could perhaps salvage the situation. He could buy them a few more minutes of breath, if he was lucky.

He did not wait for them to gather their composure or silence their tongues before he began his trek away from their temporary encampment, adrenaline and rage making up for what he once lacked. Doubts were silenced in his mind, replaced with a chilling certainty that these would be his last moments alive, captured by Legion patrols or done in by the geography and wildlife. His vision, once muddled, became sharper in the absence of fear, the starlight that once seemed far too dim lighting up the sands like the streets of Vegas. The chill of the Mojave night made his breath condense in front of his face, dragon smoke that left a tell-tale trail for his still-grumbling compatriots to follow. They had not an inkling of an idea of where he was going but, recognizing him as their superior, dragged after him like loyal dogs.

With cold efficiency, his brain began to map out a plan, pieces snapping into place like parts on an assembly line. In the absence of Lucullus’ barge, they would have to ford the river on foot or swim across some narrows. In the presence of cliffs, he would have to find someplace scalable to ascend into profligate territory. He had a vague idea of someplace slightly further south of their original destination where the slopes were more forgiving and the river was not as wide, though it was dangerously close to Legion camps and a far cry from a safe place to climb into the Mojave proper. 

He had done it before, once upon a time, when he was young and stupid and trying to find a way into Searchlight for his men. The walk was treacherous, but there were fish in the river, beans on the banks, and fresh water for literal miles. Most importantly, there were no witnesses.

After what felt like hours, he looked over his shoulder to see if his men were following him and was greeted with the sight of slaves and soldiers lumbering in the distance, angry and cold and confused. Phelix looked particularly offended while Dr. Gannon looked concerned. Antony marched beside him, bewildered but accepting, and upon being acknowledged for the first time since Vulpes began his march, offered a half-hearted salute that dripped with shame. Vulpes’ mouth wilted into a frown as he turned his attention forward, following the cliffs further south.

As if on autopilot, he dodged the rocks and cacti, and made a mental note of the change in elevation. The river seemed closer now, the sands sloping lower and the air growing noticeably cooler. He felt gravity pulling him downward, and sighed in relief that he had made it the whole way without so much as a gecko rearing its ugly head. The sounds of crickets and coyotes filled the air, cliff birds singing a nocturnal song from their nests; all of which were promising signs. Where there was easy access to water, there were the sounds of life. 

Yet, just as his heart began to lift, something rang out in the darkness. Gunshots, he realized, loud and near enough that every creature of the night fell into panicked silence. Just as the coyotes stopped baying, the crowd behind him made a noise of alarm. High pitched whimpers of women stopped him in his tracks, as did the muttering of confused men.

Then, a realization dawned on him. Not all of the voices were coming from behind.

Standing in the open, Vulpes saw a flicker of something on the horizon. It came from the southwest, the sight of lanterns and silhouettes cresting a hill looming before him. Shadowy figures, clumped together, ambled amid the fiery glow as the sound of thundering boots and brahmin hooves filled the air. There was another gunshot, lamentations and hurrahs, and a loud and booming voice calling directions like an Old World king.

Suddenly, he felt small. Cornered. Scared. He took a step backwards and felt something hard against his back, whipping around to see Antony and the others had caught up with him at long last. The houndmaster’s face was brimming with curiosity that slowly faded into abject horror as the loudest of the figures continued to belt out instructions and threats. Another gunshot, another wail. Then that voice,  _ that voice _ , howled out in anger so loudly that he may as well have been next to them.

“Lanius?” Antony drawled. His voice was a hoarse, gravelly whisper that was nearly inaudible. One of the slaves threatened to cry and Lucullus clamped a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

“Wait,  _ what? _ ”

The houndmaster took a few steps ahead, pushing Vulpes out of the way as he gawked incredulously at the sight of the strange group. Vulpes followed suit, glancing up at the moon and the stars, puzzled, before watching the mass of soldiers and slaves draw closer still. They kept good pace and walked with purpose, as though they had been intentionally coming up to meet them. Vulpes clenched his fists, feeling the color rushing out of his own face.

“He’s…  _ how _ ?” 

Antony looked to Vulpes as if he’d have an answer, but Vulpes only shook his head. Lanius was supposed to be on campaign in the Utah, as Caesar had told him before his passing. Having been a native of the area, he knew good and gods-damned well that the Utah was to the north, yet here was Lanius, approaching from the south as if he’d been tipped off about their escape. The legate had always been bad about communicating his position to the frumentarii, but this? This was absolute madness and made utterly no sense.

“I don’t know,” Vulpes answered. “I don’t know. He was not supposed to be here. Caesar never mentioned this.” 

The approaching force was now close enough that he could distinctly make out the glint of armor, the towering height of the legate, and who was a man and who was a woman. His breath caught in his throat as they came to an abrupt stop and a pang of pain erupted in his chest like a gunshot wound. He could feel the glare of Lanius. Just as Vulpes could see him, he could now see them.

“Who goes there?”

The voice was demonic, loud and low and haunting. The slaves behind Vulpes squeaked in alarm and he heard Dr. Gannon utter a curse unfitting of a Follower. Immediately, Vulpes lashed out and grabbed Antony by the wrist, yanking the houndmaster closer.

“South,” he quietly ordered him. Antony seemed perplexed.

“South,” he repeated. “Just keep following the cliffs and run south. Get to the water. Swim.”

“Vulpes, I--”

“Just go. Follow the slope.  _ Run _ .”

“I know that voice,” Lanius interrupted, and all eyes snapped up to him. He was drawing closer, blade dragging at his side, sharpening itself on the sand and stone. His eyes were voids, lost behind a jagged mask shaped into the visage of a demon.

“ _ Inculta _ ,” he snarled. Vulpes shoved Antony. His voice rose in desperation.

“Go!”

He did not need to be told twice. Antony sprinted away with a battle cry that masked his cowardice, his hound trailing him like a furry bullet. The slaves and other legionaries stampeded in the same direction like spooked brahmin, a blur of motion as Vulpes stood perfectly still in their path. Everything seemed to slow as Lanius drew closer, his men wordlessly hoisting guns without an order needing to be given. As his sword slowly raised from his side, Vulpes’ face contorted in disgust. How predictable that the brute would resort to violence after barely uttering a word of condemnation to his prey.

Screams filled the night as bullets flew, slaves and legionaries from both sides of the conflict raced down the slopes. Cliff-side birds shrieked and abandoned their nests as Vulpes took a deep breath and sprinted away. It wasn’t long before he could hear Lanius behind him, surprisingly agile despite being weighed down with pounds of metal armor, barking threats as he heaved and slashed at the empty air between them. Skidding and stumbling, dodging around the men and women surrounding him, Vulpes descended further and further down the hill, the sound of the river lapping at the banks becoming as loud as the cacophony of violence.

No sooner did a clear path to the water come into view, lined with bullet-riddled bodies of collapsed slaves, did a new and terrifying voice join the song of war. A low rumble, almost as threatening as Lanius, began somewhere in the distance before erupting into a loud, deafening shriek that caused even the stoutest of Legion men to pause. The slaves knew exactly what it was and scrambled, screaming, back the way they came. Lanius ceased his pursuit for only a moment, long enough for him to register what was coming for him and to decide whether he should be deterred.

That was when the sound of crumbling rock and crunching sand began, the ground quaking from the weight of heavy feet carrying massive, muscular bodies of glinting scales and sharp horns. Deathclaws, he realized in horror, and far more of them than he’d ever seen gathered in a single place. In the darkness, their white eyes glinted like dying stars. 

One of the behemoths charged heedlessly at Vulpes and, with a yelp of alarm, he hit the ground in time to dodge its massive claws. Lanius’ men weighed their options when faced with nature’s own legate, the Deathclaws pouring from over a rocky ledge in a non stop stream of predatory aggression. Brittle broc plants were crushed beneath their weight, the beasts stopping only to swipe the intruders off of their feet. Vulpes, beneath the gnashing teeth and knife-like hands of his attacker, watched in disgust as women in rags and men in red met their bloody, brutal ends.

Apparently, the promontory he used to reach the river banks was now home to a nest of abominations. How exciting.

Vulpes rolled to his feet as Lanius came to his senses, though the brute was soon nearly knocked off his own by a darker colored reptile that towered over the rest. He dropped his sword and wrapped his hands around its twisted horns, wrestling its head low to the ground as he called for his men to dispatch the monster. All the while, his eyes stayed locked on the frumentarius. Fueled by brilliance bred from panic, Vulpes found an opening in the onslaught of the Deathclaw towering over him and sprinted away. 

He swiftly skirted around the creatures, narrowly missing the talons of a juvenile that nicked his armor as it cleaved into one of the servants. The woman was alive when he hopped over her crumpled form, but her glassy eyes and rattling breaths indicated she would not be that way for long.

While Lanius barked at his men, Vulpes called to his own. Amid the screams of agony and terror, he instructed Antony (who he presumed was still alive) and the doctor (who, honestly, he doubted was still in one piece). His orders continued between heaving breaths as he jogged further and further along the promontory’s edge, away from the beaten path and the gentle slope to the river and back up, up,  _ up _ to where the cliffs became dangerously tall. He only fell silent when he heard Lanius gaining on him, having either killed or grown tired of wrestling a monster, his long legs closing the gap between them in no time.

“Vulpes!”

Antony’s voice was shrill and broken, as broken as he imagined his spine was when he felt something hard connect with the small of his back. It wasn’t Lanius’ sword, otherwise he wouldn’t have been in one piece, but it was obvious that either the legate or one of the deathclaws was trying to ram him to the ground. Despite the burning in his lungs and every muscle in his body, he somehow managed to ignore the searing pain and run faster. Latin curses pelted the back of his head.

“You’re running out of--!”

He didn’t need to be told. He felt Lanius’ fingers coil precariously around the back of his vexillarius hood, yanking just hard enough to choke him but with not enough force to tear it away. Holding his breath, he pushed himself forward faster and faster, until the ground disappeared and the river spread out before him like the void itself. Springing ahead, he hoped he had enough power in his legs to propel him into the deep water and enough coordination left in his body to stick the landing.

“Open fire!” Lanius commanded, with a voice like an angry god.

Time slowed. Vulpes plummeted. He was higher up than he thought and bullets ripped through his armor. He wasn’t coherent enough, not  _ himself _ enough to know if he had been hit or not, but he could see blood in the water before he even made contact. It drew nearer and nearer, black and dreadful, until he could feel its cold embrace. He felt himself sinking and the world fading away, and as he drifted to the bottom of the Colorado, he quietly bemoaned the fact that he hadn’t made it after all.


	11. Chapter 11

There were no clever words or cynical one-liners that could make it any better. Everything had happened so fast that parts of Arcade’s brain weren’t sure it had even happened at all. He could remember tunneling under the fence at Fortification Hill alongside a little girl from the brahmin pens and the pregnant woman from the slave tents, and even bits and pieces of being huddled around a fire to the south of Caesar’s shanty town. If he closed his eyes and thought very hard, he could remember Vulpes Inculta arguing with a dog trainer before stomping off like an insolent child. 

The most vivid parts of the evening were painted red, the memories a disjointed mess that he couldn’t really put together into a big, coherent picture. He could remember the man in the iron mask with the comically big sword, and he could remember deathclaws materializing out of nothing as though summoned by a dark force. Guns were popping, slaves were screaming, and everything was drenched in blood. Vulpes had kept commanding everyone to move to the river, but in the panic, everyone had scattered to the four corners of the earth. Antony could hardly keep up with who was a legionnaire and who was a slave in the commotion, and ran around like a cat herder trying to usher everyone into the water.

There was blood. There was offal. A severed head had rolled to his feet as he nervously tried to gauge whether he had the strength to swim. Vulpes Inculta had been trapped into jumping off a cliff and landed in all the wrong ways in the river, knocking himself unconscious and having to be dragged to shore by a certain handsome houndmaster who, in the process of trying to do his good deed for the day, wound up getting himself shot.

And that’s about where the lights cut out. The curtain was drawn. The play was over.

When he woke up from his nightmare, he was laying on a floor in a house far away from the carnage, sunlight shining in through a grimy window like the radiance of God. A rusting iron light fixture dangled above his head and a large, elaborate oriental rug was under his body, his face pressed against the musty, grimy fibers and his glasses covered in dust. The floorboards were rotten, the air stale, and nearby he could hear quiet sobbing. Then, the sound of boots drew near. He was almost afraid to look up.

But what was he delaying the inevitable for? His bad fortune had finally drained into a complete absence of luck, and if he was taken captive by Lanius and his goons, so be it. Exhausted and still damp, Arcade craned his head up and squinted against the light.

“Oh, man. You’re alive? That’s a shock.”

Voice like gravel. Familiar and rough. Arcade blinked and lifted a hand to shield himself from the sun, staring slack-jawed at the shadow towering above him until the face of Antony came into focus.

“You’re tougher than what I imagined a doctor to be. The hell you made of?”

“Bad decisions and misplaced idealism,” Arcade responded. Every muscle in his body screamed in a way it had never done before, even after all the traipsing around he did with the Courier before the… incident. He’d faced down Fiends in a panicked frenzy of plasma fire, he’d been bitten by night stalkers, chased clear across the southeast Mojave by hardened sentrybots, and he’d spent his fair share of time wishing for Med-X and salt baths. But this? This was a whole new level of pain, one that reminded him that the universe hated him and that he was getting old.

Slowly, he hoisted himself upright, sitting cross legged on the floor, his brain doing a couple of laps around his shaky memories to try and prepare itself for the incoming interaction. There was some tunneling, some running, Lanius, and Vulpes sailing through the air like a crashing vertibird. Then, there was the fact he watched Antony get shot.

Wait.

His head snapped up to Antony, now stooping down in front of him, clutching his shoulder while one arm hung limply to the side. Arcade seemed to remember the guy snagging Vulpes from the bottom of the river with that limp noodle, but he supposed adrenaline could be a hell of a thing. Grinning when he noticed the doctor gawking, he nodded in the direction of his bum limb and barked a laugh.

“Don’t worry. This is absolutely  _ not _ the worst I’ve been hurt. You should have seen how I earned my voice.”

Arcade didn’t ask questions and decided to take him at his word. Seeing as he no longer had to worry about Antony, he slowly panned around the room and took stock of his new environment. 

If he had to make an educated guess, he’d wager they were in a one-room cabin, the sort one would find at old campsites along the river. Bookshelves of dusty tomes were lined up against a wall next to a rickety bed with a dirty, piled-high mattress that looked as if it had  _ fought _ in the Great War. Next to a sturdy door that presumably led to freedom was a counter top lined with aged appliances, withered fruit, and hapless slaves. They all looked pale and defeated, covered in dirt and blood, the most prominent of which were the pregnant slave he’d met in the tents and the little girl from the pens. They were both exhausted and battered, and he was honestly surprised to see that they made it.

The more he examined everything, however, the more he realized just how few people present. A small army of slaves had dwindled to maybe five. There was an unidentifiable mass on the bed that was presumably human, but only big enough to maybe be one person and definitely not enough to make up for the absences.

Suddenly alarmed, Arcade tried and failed to stand up. Antony watched him in silence before offering his good arm as support.

“You’re being pretty polite for a legionnaire,” Arcade remarked as he toddled to his feet. Antony shrugged, this time with both shoulders, though the look of pain on his face betrayed his injury.

“Eh, I’m not Legion no more. I guess now that we’re on this side of the river, we’re as close to equals as I’ll admit.”

Once Arcade was steady, Antony turned him loose and he hobbled toward the window like a moth following light. Every step was a labor, testing his discipline as he dragged his aching body to the edge of the room. His shoes scraped against the floor and his body collapsed against the sill in an explosion of dust.

“Where are we?” Arcade asked weakly. The sunlight was bright and blinding, but outside he could see magical things like sand, empty bottles, and a lovely set of empty crosses a stone’s throw away. A water tower loomed in the distance, a campfire blazed in the light of day, and chain link glittered in the distance. Curiously, he could also see people, though they looked nothing like he was expecting. After a date night with Lanius wherein the Legion had decided to attack for no reason aside from unchecked bloodlust, he thought he’d be greeted by plumed headdresses, goggles, and paisley bandannas. 

Instead? It was all bandoliers, bears, and khaki. Arcade cocked an eyebrow and looked over his shoulder at Antony who, again, shrugged despite it not being in his best interest. This time he hissed in pain before he ambled up next to him, forcing him to scoot over so he could slum it up with the slave.

“Yeah, I was awake when they came. We washed up on shore, and these assholes saw the whole thing. Grabbed us. Now we’re here.”

“Where is here?”

“Nelson, I think.”

“Nelson?” Arcade echoed incredulously. “How did they get down to where we were with the--?”

“Cliffs? Heh, did you know there was a path the whole time? It’s crazy steep and narrow, but it’s there. They made me walk the whole fuckin’ thing while dragging you. I’m sure Dead Sea would have loved to have known about it.”

“Didn’t your map say this place was under Legion control, though? That, ah, that sure as hell isn’t Legion out there.”

“Oh, I know what the map said. But the whole reason Dead Sea can’t know about that path is that they fucking killed him. Wild how that works, huh?”

Arcade fell silent. Even though Antony didn’t seem particularly bothered by what he’d just said, it seemed rude to be dismissive of somebody announcing the death of a soldier. Sure, it was a soldier who was probably a rapist and a murderer, but offending a much stronger man while locked in a room with him? Probably not the best idea.

“Where is everyone else?”

Antony sniffed and gestured out the window, off to some vague area next to the empty crosses in the center of town. It was now that Arcade noticed a row of lumps, all of which were vaguely human shaped and familiar. After a quick polish of his glasses and a little straining, he could pick a few faces here and there that he’d recognized from their escape run. The tall Legion ferryman, it would seem, hadn’t made it across the river in one piece, and neither did the tribal lady Arcade had interacted with at the slave tents. There was a smattering of men in Legion red, their bandannas and headpieces removed, eyes opened unevenly and staring at the sun. Sandwiched between them were the bodies of slaves who he'd goaded into coming with them.

Arcade’s stomach sank and, as if sensing his horror, Antony slapped him a little too hard on the back. It was a friendly gesture, something to knock him out of his state of shock, but he could already tell it was going to leave one hell of a bruise.

“They’re with the gods now,” Antony promised, rapping his fingers against the sill impatiently. “And, you know, there’s fewer people out there and in here than what we had. I mean, it’s perfectly possible that they’ve got others holed up elsewhere, or people got away, or--”

“Or, they’re dead on the other side of the river,” Arcade finished. Antony snorted a laugh that was unsettlingly sincere.

“What matters is we’re here and they’re anywhere but with Lanius right now. No reason to get so dark.”

Arcade turned away, looking back out at the row of bodies and letting out a heavy sigh. Sure, he’d told himself that death would have been preferable to the Legate, but now that he was looking at a trail of corpses drying in the Mojave sun, he didn’t know how much he agreed with his past self. Lanius had got to them anyway, somehow, despite every odd in the world indicating that it never should have happened. At least, according to Vulpes. Wasn’t it his job to know where everyone was at any given time?

Suddenly, a realization hit Arcade like a slap to the face.

Where  _ was _ Vulpes?

Squinting again against the sunlight, he struggled to make out the Legion men in the body pile, only recognizing the ferryman out of the bunch. The others were only vaguely familiar, being that most of their time was spent with their faces covered. Holding his breath, he turned to scan the room again, counting out the slaves and noticing one other man in red aside from Antony standing disheveled in a corner, ostracized from the ladies in painted rags. It wasn’t Vulpes, that was for damn sure. If memory served correct, it was that “Phelix” guy that Antony purported as being a scout.

“Where’s Dogface?” Arcade asked, trying to mask the concern in his voice. He had no reason to care if Vulpes lived or died but, for whatever reason, his brain had latched onto the guy. Maybe it was because he was familiar, or maybe it was because he seemed a bit more human than the two other elephants crowding the room. More likely, it was because Arcade was a pushover who probably would have shed a tear for any acquaintance he knew for longer than fifteen minutes, sans the Courier.

Because fuck the Courier.

“Dogface?” Antony repeated slowly, before realization lit up in his eyes. “Oh, you mean Vulpes. He’s, ah, he’s… yeah.”

Antony dismissively waved toward the side of the room where the stained bed he’d scouted earlier stood proud and dirty. It was then he saw a hint of red and leather on the pile heaped atop it, and if he tilted his head  _ just _ right, he could see eyes watching him. Arcade leaned forward, trying to make out the features of the man in the shadows, but his eyesight was too poor and his mind was too rattled. Judging from the way the figure rolled to face the wall, it didn’t seem he wanted to be interacted with anyway.

The furry, wagging figure using him as a space heater, however, seemed thrilled with the attention. It was a relief to see the dog had made it, if nothing else.

“He’s kinda dazed,” Antony explained. “I don’t know how hurt he is, ‘cause I ain’t no doctor, but I think most of the damage is to his pride.”

“Uh, with a fall like he had, I’d be surprised if most of the damage wasn’t to his  _ everything _ ,” Arcade contested. “And, uh, d-didn’t he get shot or something? I seem to remember him getting shot. And slashed. And tackled. Maybe even bitten.”

“He’ll be fine. I mean, like I said, I ain’t no doctor but everything on the outside looked superficial. Cuts, grazes, bruises, shit he can walk off. We’re Legion boys, doc. Glorified cannon fodder. All of us have more bullet holes than sense at this point.”

The lump formerly known as Vulpes shifted uncomfortably on the bed, and Arcade could make out the silhouette of hands snaking up to cover his ears. Either he was trying to sleep or just didn’t like to hear folks talk about him. That was a relatable feeling if Arcade ever saw one.

As he watched the sad sight of a proud frumentarius angsting like a teenager, he was taken by surprise by the sound of a loud series of bangs. A loud, shrill scream erupted from every corner, Vulpes springing up from his nest and Antony rearing back his good arm like he was ready to punch bullets out of the air. Adrenaline pulsed through Arcade’s body so furiously that he swore he’d have a coronary, clutching his chest and stumbling to his knees as he waited to see if he was still alive or not. There was a brief pause, long enough for the clamor to die down, before the banging happened again.

This time, it was obvious it wasn’t gunshots. It wasn’t somebody beating down a door. It was somebody knocking on the window, like a friendly neighbor coming to see if they wanted a slice of mutfruit pie.

Except, when Arcade looked up from his impending heart attack, the face in the window was a far cry from a friendly neighbor. No, what was looking at him was a crazed hobo in an NCR ranger’s hat, with a large and bushy lumberjack beard and angry eyes nestled beneath arched brows. If not for the buzzcut and the lack of an ax, Arcade could have easily assumed he was a maniac drifter posing as a military officer, capturing soldiers and wanderers for his own sick amusement.

The stranger knocked again, a third and final time. Realizing he had their attention, he firmly stated through the glass, “Open the window. Now.”

Arcade blinked and settled on the floor. Antony tilted his head like a confused dog. The slaves shrank back into the far wall like they were trying to become one with the wallpaper, all the while Vulpes sat on the bed in silence, staring with cold indifference. After all, that was his shtick.

“Pen-oay eh-tay indow-way, you piece of shit,” the ranger continued, this time glaring directly at Antony. The houndmaster hesitated, obviously having never heard Pig Latin and unable to understand the ranger’s sad attempt at mean-spirited humor. It all just sounded like jumbled gibberish to him, and he looked to Vulpes in confusion.

“You got until three, jackass. One…”

The mattress in the corner creaked and, with a sigh, Vulpes clambered to his feet and dragged himself past them both. Every move seemed labored, and judging from the look of him, the “superficial” wounds Antony touted were a lot more crippling than a few nicks. With what seemed to be a monumental effort, he hooked his fingers around the window’s edge and pushed up as far as it would go, which was admittedly not far. From the floor, Arcade could hear the sound of it thumping against something as Vulpes tried to force it, before both of them came to the same realization. They’d installed a block on the window track from the outside. Clever.

As if he had any fight left in him, Vulpes lingered there with his arms folded across his chest. The ranger mirrored him perfectly.

“So, you do speak English. Good. Because we need to have a little talk.”

With how hard he was clenching his jaw, it was pretty easy to tell Vulpes had no intention of saying anything. No, the boy thought that the power of a withering stare would be enough to win a negotiation. Arcade’s gaze flicked to Antony, but the houndmaster only shrugged. He wasn’t about to get involved in anything either, it seemed.

“I hope you know just how much you just fucked up, son,” the ranger began. “Nelson is NCR now, if you didn’t get the memo.”

Silence still. The slaves shifted uneasily. Vulpes never blinked. The ranger, however, didn’t seem to have the kind of patience necessary to deal with a stubborn POW. Mustering what strength he had, Arcade sprang to his feet and threw himself toward the window.

“Actually,” he anxiously drawled, finger raised, “we were kind of banking on that. Would be kind of stupid to escape the Legion and, you know, run right back into the Legion.”

This, apparently, was not the kind of response the ranger was expecting. Before he could be given a chance to fully process what was said, Arcade rammed an arm out of the gap in the window to offer a handshake.

“Dr. Arcade Gannon, Followers of the Apocalypse. I did botanical research until I was sold into slavery. I like long walks on the beach, scotch on the rocks, and not having a bomb collar anymore. Has anyone ever told you that you’re a  _ very _ handsome man?”

The ranger, for whatever it was worth, accepted the handshake. He didn’t address much of anything else Arcade had said, instead offering a bland introduction.

“Ranger Milo,” he responded gruffly. Arcade forced a smile. He watched as a few curious NCR troopers began to cluster around like gamblers watching a Gomorrah street performance.

“Well, Ranger Milo, now that we’re all square, what say we change the tone of this conversation, eh? You seem to be of the mind that we’re here to do harm. We’re here to get away from a slave-filled fascist hellscape. Let’s hash this out like civilized men.”

The troopers hanging around behind Milo seemed amused and bewildered while the ranger himself looked a little put off. But, if Arcade had learned anything in his dealings with stubborn locals and chemed-out junkies in Freeside, it was that it often made things a lot easier if you never gave the opposition a chance to talk. Leave them dazed, leave them confused, leave them with only just enough brain power to think about the wall of information you just regurgitated at them like a night stalker with a stomach ache. It was how he forced squatters and locals to quit fighting, Jet addicts to take their Fixer, and Julie Farkas to leave him alone. He hoped and prayed it worked on larger, angrier opponents.

“I mean,” Arcade continued, less-than-seamlessly, “if you were watching us enough to know where we washed up, I’m pretty sure you saw us being driven into the river.”

“By deathclaws,” Milo retorted. Arcade playfully rolled his eyes and chortled.

“Come on! You didn’t see Legate Lanius? That guy’s as big as a brahmin and probably took out more of us than the wildlife did. And, if you haven’t noticed, deathclaws haven’t mastered the art of using firearms yet, which means it’s highly unlikely he got to the guy standing next to me.”

When he gestured at Antony, Antony waved with his good arm in response. Milo’s brows furrowed. Arcade couldn’t tell if this was working or not, but he wouldn’t have a chance to continue. Quietly, the houndmaster sidled up next to him and slowly hip checked him out of the way, leaning ever-so-slightly on Arcade until he was out of the window entirely. Bad shoulder be damned, Antony crossed his arms on the sill and smiled as earnestly as he could. It was obvious he’d not had anything to smile about in a while, and the forced grin looked like something a serial killer would wear.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, but hi,” the legionnaire rasped. “I’m Antony.”

Milo’s eyes darted around, as if he was waiting for somebody to jump out of the woodwork and announce he’d been pranked. Arcade could see why. Here he was with Legion prisoners who, historically, were hard to even catch alive, and here’s a captive sliding into his good graces like he was looking for a date. 

“I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but--”

“I’m not trying to pull anything,” Antony casually interrupted. “But I am the mastermind of this little escape, and we were intentionally aiming for NCR land. Like the doctor said, it’s really fucking stupid to run back _into_ enemy territory as soon as you get _out_ of enemy territory.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes drifting across the troopers. When he doubled down on Milo again, his smile fell and his brow furrowed.

“Hey, you got a cigarette? All mine got fucked in the river.”

Much to Arcade’s surprise, one of the troopers obliged. Antony graciously accepted the gift of cancer, lit it with a lighter in his boot that surprisingly still worked, and took a long drag that made the slaves collectively gasp. Arcade didn’t know if it was in astonishment at seeing a legionnaire fall off the wagon so quickly, or if they just didn’t like the smell.

“Look, Milo,” Antony continued, cigarette dangling between his fingers. “Is it okay if I call you Milo?”

The ranger said nothing. Antony took another puff, savoring it. 

“But, Milo, you  _ had _ to have been watching us if you knew where to abduct us. And, if that’s the case, you couldn’t have missed the goddamned legate just across the river. He’s seven feet tall, man. He’s kind of noticeable.”

The ranger stayed silent but, examining his face, Arcade could see that there was something in his eyes. Curious, not quite as malevolent as before. Maybe this was actually working. God, he hoped so.

“I’ll level with you, okay? Caesar is dead. Somebody in this room killed him. You got three live Legion guys, I guess, but you mostly just got the slaves we smuggled over, ‘cause, you know, what’s one good deed on the way out? And of the legionaries you got? You got the boring ones. I train dogs. One carries a flag. The other goes on long hikes and comes back with notes on where he got stung by a cazador--”

“Wait.”

Milo’s voice was heavy and slow, tinged with confusion. Over Antony’s shoulder, Arcade watched as the ranger’s brow quirked up and he rolled his hand in the air in a bid to make his tongue release his words from captivity. When they finally came to him, his eyes locked on Arcade’s, obviously wanting to talk to anyone but a legionnaire and notably sick of Antony’s prattling.

“Let’s back up,” he urged. “Caesar is dead?”

“That’s right,” Antony answered, but Milo ignored him. His gaze doubled down on Arcade and, quietly, he gently found his way back up to the front-and-center of the window. He swallowed hard. It felt like a grade school presentation, only with significantly steeper penalties if he slipped up on a word.

“Caesar is  _ dead _ ?” Milo repeated, his voice harsher. The eyes of his subordinates lit up like Christmas lights around him.

“And I’m the one who killed him,” Arcade responded with a nervous, twitchy smile. “Unintentionally but not regrettably.”

“How?”

Milo’s words reeked with incredulousness as he eyed the doctor up and down, and he supposed he could understand. Arcade wasn’t a ranger. He wasn’t a soldier. He didn’t even look like he knew which way to hold a gun, and the Followers symbol on his now-ragged coat spoke of an oath of pacifism. To have him claim something as lofty as the assassination of a warlord was like having somebody accuse a newborn puppy of killing their brahmin.

“I was sold to the Legion because I was a doctor. They thought I knew how to do brain surgery. I didn’t. I guess it’d be easier to say that cancer slayed the dragon, but I’m the one who did the cutting. These aren’t rust stains on my shirt, that’s for damn sure.”

While the ranger took a moment to digest this, it was one of his lessers that decided to open his mouth. Eyes shielded by goggles and a goofy, wide-brimmed helmet, he inched a little closer to the conversation and leaned in for a better look. There was a spark of familiarity in his eyes, like he recognized something about Arcade, though he couldn’t recall ever having seen the kid in his life. His mouth stretched into a wry smile.

“So, you killed Caesar and instead of killing you, those meatheads just decided to run with it?”

At this, Antony became visibly agitated. His eyes narrowed, his lip raised in a snarl, and his voice came out in a hollow, angry growl that even seemed to take Vulpes and Phelix by surprise. Leaning against the window, drooling like a feral dog, he managed the words, “You think I  _ liked _ living over there?”

Silence. Nobody seemed to know what to say, least of all Arcade. For all the sass he touted and how good he’d gotten at defusing situations, he was a bit too exhausted to give it the old college try.

“Those assholes came into  _ my _ land and killed  _ my _ people. They burned  _ my _ dogs and  _ my _ temples. They raped  _ my _ mom and murdered  _ my _ dad and tied  _ me _ up and fuckin’ beat me within an inch of my life when I wasn’t grateful. Do you  _ fucking think _ for a goddamned second that I wasn’t just waiting for the right moment to get away? It took years, you idiot fuck, and this is the first goddamned time I had an opening! If it were up to me, I'd nuke everything on that side of the fuckin' river!”

With every word, his voice grew louder and his face redder. By the end of it, even Milo had taken a few steps away from the window, half convinced Antony would reach out and throttle him. He would have kept on trucking if not for Vulpes, still stubbornly silent, who whipped out a tired hand and jerked him away. He seamlessly replaced him, shot an exhausted look to Arcade, and leaned his head against the glass.

“It was a good time to get away,” Vulpes continued. “Security is not as tight. The frumentarii have no leader. Caesar is…  _ dead _ . Lanius was supposed to have been gone. Not all of us forgot how we came to be under his banner.”

He gestured past the NCR soldiers at the line of dead slaves and soldiers.

“That should be testament enough to our honest intentions. Those of us who died to escape tyranny. You profligates tout amnesty for refugees from the east, yet you see refugees in red and retract your offer. It is revolting that you doubt our intentions when we proved braver than  _ you _ to earn our freedom. We faced Lanius to earn our passage. You have fled from him every time he has reared his head.”

“You’re not helping,” Arcade dryly muttered, though Vulpes didn’t acknowledge him. Heck, he didn’t even acknowledge that anything he had said could have been interpreted as an insult, his expression and tone as flat as ever. Slight as it was, Milo seemed to pick up on what he was putting down, cocking his own head to mimic the frumentarius before cracking a small smile. It was vague yet sinister, straddling a fine line between amused and angry. 

Did he find Vulpes endearing? Was he going to smack the taste clear out of his mouth? The world, quite possibly, would never know.

“If you’re trying to bargain for your freedom, I’ll think about it,” Milo conceded, with a tone that matched his expression. “I got to admit: I was confused as hell to see the lot of you going toe-to-toe with your own through the binoculars. Anyone who is on the Legion’s shit list is a friend of the NCR, I suppose.”

Arcade felt a bubble of hope swelling within him, moments before he caught a glimpse of something cruel in Milo’s eyes. His tone turned dark. His smile twisted into a scowl.

“And I guess if you’re a lying fuck, Legion boys are worth a lot to the brass. You end up being a  _ turncoat _ turncoat, we’re going to beat the goddamn answers we want out of you and string you up on your own fucking cross. Hell, we may even do that anyway.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Vulpes cooly responded. At this, Milo’s eyebrow arched. An incredulous laugh passed his lips.

_ “I’ll think about it.” _

The final word. It hit the ground between them like a stone and then, as abruptly as the conversation started, it came to a halt. Vulpes still leaned against the window, Antony still seethed, and the NCR troopers went about their business in the broken little town they’d conquered. The only hint their little chat had even happened at all was the quiet murmur of the slaves behind them, and the bitterness in Vulpes’ eyes as he watched Milo walk away.


	12. Chapter 12

It was right at the cusp of his thirteenth birthday, which he’d been looking forward to for most of the year. On that most hallowed of days, his tribe would recognize him as a man, marking him with the sacred symbols of the gods and trusting him to be able to lead his people in times of great need. As it drew nearer, so too did word of a band of strangers trekking across the desert scrubland, a blood-red serpent slithering through the dried grass and Joshua trees. They’d never been seen in the Sevier before and, once they arrived, his tribe would never be seen in the Sevier again.

Vulpes never was marked by the gods, but he didn’t need their blessing. He deemed himself a man. He found a way to lead his new people.

And as he sat there, cross-legged on the floor in front of the doctor, his thoughts haunted him. The stench of failure permeated him as surely as the odor of blood and sweat. He wondered if anyone realized how many times he’d swept by the window, bedraggled and aching, to stare out at the legionaries he’d failed and reflect on how miserably he’d performed his duties as their leader. He wondered how much of this came about from his own hubris, his hissy-fit upon realizing he’d have to salvage Antony’s plan alone, or his own selfish delusion that it only mattered if he made it across the river. Self-preservation had always been his first and foremost priority under Caesar’s banner, but the words of his tribe still rattled in his head like gourd seeds.

“Raise your arm,” the doctor ordered. Vulpes, stone-faced, did as he was told. It hurt to move, but he clenched his teeth and maintained his composure. Nobody was to see Vulpes in a moment of weakness. He exposed his belly to no one. 

“Geez. Antony said this was superficial damage. You're not in any condition to do much of anything. How are you still walking?”

Vulpes huffed a humorless laugh out of his nose. How strange to hear a profligate’s take on injuries that Caesar would have found mild at worst. The Mojave certainly did breed their men weak, soft and pampered and unworthy of inheriting an earth that desired something stronger.

Yet, the doctor did have his uses. He’d been scraping together what supplies he could, buried under garbage and hidden within cabinets, flitting around like a cazador between each of his fellow prisoners. He’d treated Antony’s gunshot wound with vodka and a sewing kit, and set broken bones with torn sheets and chunks of wood Phelix had helped tear from the furniture. Even Antony’s hound happily pranced about with makeshift gauze wrapped around her; she was uninjured, but the doctor had playfully dressed her so that she didn’t feel left out.

He was weak, but clever. Intelligent. Vulpes supposed he could appreciate that, even if his physical failings and venomous tongue marked him as being barely above the typical degenerate.

“I’m pretty sure you have another fracture in your arm,” Arcade explained with a sigh, grasping both hands on Vulpes’ wrist. “I’m going to work my way up to your shoulder. Tell me when it hurts, okay?”

Vulpes stared blankly at him, but said nothing. The doctor seemed to take it as understanding. With a strange firmness that seemed unbecoming of a man so delicate, he felt his way across Vulpes’ arm, hands inching further and further up. After every press, he’d wait for a moment, allowing Vulpes to gauge the pain. If silence was the answer, he’d continue on.

In truth, it all hurt. It was as if his entire body had become a massive bruise and every slight touch was torture. Yet, it wasn’t until the doctor hit the area around his elbow that he felt tears involuntarily welling in his eyes. His body went rigid. The doctor knew without Vulpes even having to say a word.

“Can you move it?”

“I have been,” Vulpes responded matter-of-factly. 

The doctor nodded, probing the area a bit more forcefully while Vulpes dug his nails into his palm. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Phelix and Antony gawking as if the scene were a great scandal. Were they gauging him for weakness, or were they legitimately concerned?

“Yep, that’s a hairline fracture. Don’t feel a break, but that reaction gives it away. Must be where you hit the water wrong.”

“How does one hit water wrong, Dr. Gannon? It’s water. It gives.”

“Yeah, well, it still has surface tension. You dive properly, you’ll probably be fine. Belly flop from high enough, and you may as well be jumping from a cliff straight onto asphalt.”

Vulpes blinked slowly. “I didn’t jump from that high up.”

“You may have not realized it because everything, including Lanius, was trying to eat you. But yeah. You did. That was a bad fall.”

With those words, he patted Vulpes on the back, a silent sign that his armor must be removed. Antony and Phelix politely looked away, more for the comfort of the doctor than for Vulpes himself. Legion men, let alone former tribals, were quite used to nakedness in pretty much all of its forms. The slaves, however, seemed completely enamored by the scene, their eyes glued to their former keeper as he unlatched and removed each piece and set it aside. It was a moment to see him weak, to see if he had been treated as badly by life as they had.

While peeling his undershirt over his head, he hadn’t expected to hear an appreciative whistle from the doctor. It seemed most unprofessional. Once Vulpes could see, he whipped his head in his direction and frowned. The doctor, however, looked more horrified than impressed.

“Quite the collection of war trophies you got there.”

Vulpes paused. It didn’t occur to him what he meant, not until his eyes traced down to his chest, his side, his shoulders. Beyond the new additions that were bruised and bloody, he’d forgotten how many scars he’d accumulated over the course of his service to Caesar. Burns, gouges, dents that were once bullet holes. He was a veritable medical chart for how war wounds heal.

“I have been a soldier a long time,” Vulpes answered dryly. The doctor nodded in understanding before immediately setting about investigating the fresh injuries.

“How long?”

It was obvious that he was trying to start conversation for reasons other than friendly discussion. While doing reconnaissance in NCR territory and unaligned lands, he’d found that their doctors had developed a habit of keeping patients talking as they worked. Practical, really, as it was mostly an effort to keep the dying focused enough to fight and the wounded distracted enough to not faint. Still, the custom seemed tedious and alien.

“I forget,” Vulpes said noncommittally. The doctor laughed bitterly.

“You forget how long you’ve been a soldier? That’s something I’d expect to hear from an octogenarian.”

“By Legion standards, I am quite old.”

“Then I must be ancient. Seriously, how old are you?”

“... I forget.”

The doctor hesitated when he realized that Vulpes was being earnest. The two exchanged glances, the doctor much more bothered than his patient. He offered the doctor an insincere, mocking smirk.

“I think I am somewhere between twenty-seven and twenty-nine, if you must know. We don’t really bother to count our years. Each is a gift from Mars, and every moment is assumed to be our last.”

“That’s extremely sad. You know that, right?”

“It’s not sad, Dr. Gannon. It’s life.”

The conversation was cut short by the feeling of a sharp, insidious pain that shot like lightning through every nerve in his body. The doctor was prodding at some patch of flesh that he could not see, on his back and above his hip. An involuntary curse flew from his mouth as he punched the ground, his comrades in red shifting their attention back to him out of curiosity.

“That bad, huh?”

Vulpes heaved angrily but said nothing.

“Don’t worry. It’s just a bruise. A knotted-up, nasty bruise, but there’s no break in the skin or skeletal damage as far as I can tell. The deathclaw that hit you was trying to snap you in half.”

“Not a deathclaw. Lanius.”

The word fell from his mouth like poison, infecting the air and suffocating all around him. He remembered feeling the blow, right in the small of his back as he was running. He remembered thinking he was dead. His breath hitched in his throat.

“What did he hit you with? A car?”

“The blunt side of his sword, or his fist. I don’t know. I was too busy running away.”

Silence was the response from the doctor who, judging from how he carried on the rest of the evaluation, was smart enough to detect the contempt in his voice and leave well enough alone. The remainder of treatment went quietly and quickly, the doctor requesting bits and baubles from the nearest helpful hand to patch up gashes and disinfect bloody punctures where gunshots and sharp claws had done their work. How hastily and nervously he carried on was oddly calming, bringing to mind the slaves at the healer tents on his side of the river. It was a taste of familiarity in a foreign land.

After what felt like no time at all, the doctor stood up and dusted himself off. It was astounding how much blood and dust he’d accumulated working on Vulpes alone, though he’d learned early in life that a little bit of red can go a long way. On white, a tablespoon can look like a gallon.

“And we’re done,” the doctor announced and, as if on cue, Vulpes dutifully began to dress himself. Each layer of clothing and armor was delicately placed, fastened, tightened, and adjusted. It was an artform, really, something that the profligates barely understood.

“You really need to take it easy, you know. You can put on that tough-guy act all you want, but if you keep tempting fate, you’re going to rupture something that I can’t fix. I’m working with bedknobs and broomsticks here. I can’t reinflate a punctured lung just by wishing on a star.”

“I’ve a punctured lung?”

“You’re in danger of one because of a broken rib, so stay off your feet. Lay down. Don’t move so much. Stop trying to be the Grognak of this little group.”

Vulpes offered a half smile and shrugged. He knew that the concern was coming from a place of habit, perhaps a desire not to see his hard work go to waste. The doctor had no love for him, the Legion, or any who ever marched under his standard. Still, in a strange way, it was nice to be the recipient of concern. Not many people invested much in him beyond being rightfully afraid.

Trudging back to the bed against the wall, Vulpes stiffly lowered himself to the mattress and fell back with a groan. Attention turned away from him, save Antony’s hound who was quick to jump up by his side. The doctor went about his business, his Legion brothers went back to their conversations, and the slaves did whatever it was that slaves were wont to do. Adrenaline began to ebb from his blood and, as it did so, an overpowering wave of exhaustion fell upon him. Vulpes’ legs were still dangling off the side of the bed as he fell asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

The Followers of the Apocalypse had never questioned how Arcade knew half the things he did. They just assumed the planets had aligned correctly and the gods of medicine had delivered upon them a blessing wrapped in the guise of an underwhelming Caucasian man. Sure, they’d taught him a lot, but Arcade had turned around and given Julie and her crew just as many tidbits and pointers in return. He was fortunate that they didn’t ask questions or, when they did, that he could easily talk his way around them. How awkward it would have been for everyone if they knew they were using second-hand information from a fascist organization.

However, the problem with being good at anything in the Mojave is that you find yourself in high demand. Sure, he spent most of his time sequestered away trying to bottle lightning, but whenever anything went sideways in a new and fascinating way, somebody in a lab coat was trying to dramatically throw open his tent flap and summon him like a superhero. It was exhausting, really, having to bounce between botany and bullet holes, or being called away from a promising experiment to talk down a junkie who was screaming incoherently at the other patients. But, it was what he signed up for. It was his job.

Even while he was holed up in a cabin with his mortal enemies, blocked from freedom by a couple of inches of door and a contingent of heavily armed bureaucrats, it was _still_ his job. 

At least time flew while he was working, though he missed half of everything that went on around him. More often than not, his food would get swiped by one of the other slaves when the NCR boys remembered to feed their new pets, as distracted as he was tending to some blossoming infection or broken bone he missed. It took the better part of a week to realize that his fellow freedmen had been holding celebrations and card games behind his back, and longer to realize he knew the names of the legionnaires but only one of their captives. The pregnant woman (who he eventually learned was named Irma) took up the majority of his time, since every second that ticked past brought her closer and closer to bursting at the seams. It seemed like every day he was struggling to get a straight answer out of her about her condition and timeline.

If nothing else, the Legion boys usually had his back. It was a surprise, honestly, but he found that Antony in particular was always rearing to help. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he’d earned their respect just by lasting as long as he had, but that was unlikely the case. It probably had everything to do with the fact that they were hurt, he was a doctor, and nobody else knew how to jury-rig medical equipment quite like him. He was a convenience they tolerated for the sake of their best interests.

Not that it mattered if they liked him. He wasn’t fond of them either. They were a convenience, too.

“Doc!”

The sound of Antony’s voice rang out like a broken siren, Arcade looking up from his dark pity corner and his pile of sad, stolen books he’d swiped off the shelf. Most of them were boring--ruined romance novels and cookbooks that insisted that gelatin was the next big hit--but it was something to distract him between bouts of dousing pus-filled wounds with ancient moonshine and sterilizing sewing needles with a lighter.

“Doc! Hey, c’mere!” Antony stood, Vulpes and Phelix still sitting in his shadow. In his good hand, held above his head, was a plate of food. He’d missed feeding time again.

The amount of effort it took to stand up was staggering, but it’d been a good day or two since the last time he ate anything substantial. Marking where he left off in the spicy, incredibly heterosexual tale of Jessica Noble and her time-traveling samurai lover, he squirmed his way to his feet. Adjusting his glasses, he decided the blurred vision was exhaustion and vertigo instead of anything too worrying. After all, he could see just fine a moment before.

Slowly, he dragged himself over, collapsing to the floor between Phelix and Vulpes. Antony followed suit. His welcome gift was a plate of slop that looked like it had started as corn and baked beans, but had been blended together into a weird, lumpy gruel that hardly seemed palatable. Bits of what seemed to be Cram floated in between vegetable chunks, as well as another garnish speckled throughout that he couldn’t place. It was brownish red, and had a distinct smell like copper and liver. His brain couldn’t decide if it was rust or freeze dried Salisbury steak. 

“Fair to guess this tastes like licking the inside of a trash can?” he grumbled. Phelix nodded grimly.

“Worse. The trick is to hold your nose.”

“Not as bad as what they fed us in training,” Antony snorted, nudging Vulpes with his elbow. He flinched, still rather tender from his intimate date with death, but nodded all the same. It was as noncommittal and cold as always, more of a gesture to make Antony shut up than an actual agreement. Arcade examined the still full plate of food sitting by his feet and the awkward way that he prodded at it with his fingers, like a bored kid waiting to be excused from the table.

“Actually, I think Agapius was actually made to lick the inside of a trash can by Silus. I mean, that was after training but… do you remember that, Vulpes? Wasn’t that back when you were a decanus?”

Vulpes’ eyes flicked up and it was pretty evident that it wasn’t anything he wanted to talk about. Then again, when did he ever want to talk about anything? The man was locked up tighter than a Vault.

“Or was that you that made him do it?” Antony continued, oblivious. “I don’t know. I just know somebody pissed somebody off and ended up head first in a garbage can in Phoenix. That was not a fun time.”

“When was it ever a fun time?” Phelix demanded, watching curiously as Arcade tried to force down his meal. He took the scout’s advice and pinched his nose as hard as he could, unpleasantly surprised when he could still somehow feel the smell in his mouth. The distinct taste of baked beans and preservatives was there, and it was painfully apparent that the corn tossed into the mush hadn’t been cooked at all. Everything was cold and slimy and, when it hit his stomach, it sat there like a rock. A rock that was somehow ghoulified, no less.

“Oh my god,” he gagged, trying to scrape off his tongue on the back of his teeth. The men in red watched him, half-smiling and seemingly impressed. Even Vulpes.

“You are a far braver man than I,” he stated blandly, sliding his plate in Arcade’s direction. This was obviously an assassination attempt. Recoiling in horror, he gave a firm shake of his head.

“No. No, that is _your_ problem. I’m already hearing my dead father calling me home.”

Polite silence followed. For the next few minutes, it was strangely calm, with the legionnaires deciding to mind their own business and the slaves apparently silenced by how atrocious their dinner was. Arcade would have let himself enjoy the moment of peace if not for the fact that he was quietly obsessed with how the hell such a foul concoction had come to be made. While it made perfect sense to assume that it was out of spite, he’d spoken to enough people from Fort McCarran to know that the NCR wasn’t known for their cooking.

He wondered how the NCR kept recruitment up with this kind of torture.

The sound of Antony clearing his throat revived the conversation, though it didn’t seem like he had anything specific to say. It was just something he did, the byproduct of chain smoking and whatever butchered his voice.

“You’ve been talking to the profligates,” Phelix finally piped. Antony didn’t respond immediately, still trying to dislodge whatever imaginary thing he was choking on.

“Yeah, and?” he finally sputtered.

“They seem to like you.”

Antony’s face fell in irritation. Over the course of their captivity, he had been pretty friendly with the zookeepers, probably more than even the slaves. It was equal parts extroversion and manipulation, Arcade had figured, since he didn’t seem to have the same reservations as everyone else about playing the NCR at their own game. Most of the time it was cigarettes and seconds, maybe food for his elderly dog who’d proven luckier and more resourceful than most of the legionnaires. Sometimes it was for information, which was the only thing Phelix didn’t give him shit about whenever the topic came up.

“By the Great Hound. Really? We were having a good day, Phelix.”

“I’m not trying to start anything. I just have a question.”

“Which is?”

“Have you heard anything about what they’re going to do with us? We’ve been here for… gods, I don’t even know. It feels like forever.”

“Three weeks,” Vulpes interjected. Arcade was glad somebody knew, because the days were beginning to blend together.

Surprisingly, the other slaves remained quiet, despite the fact this was usually the type of conversation they usually tried to butt in on. Either the food had poisoned them all or they'd settled for silent eavesdropping this time around.

“Eh. It’s not like I’ve spoken to Milo. I mostly talk to Alex and Jake, and the two of them don’t really know what’s going down. No word on us, but I know they’re not planning on keeping the slaves locked up. They just don’t have anywhere to send them because their refugee camp is experiencing technical difficulties. As in, you know, technically everything is difficult.”

“You mean Bitter Springs?” Arcade asked. Antony snapped his fingers and pointed at Arcade in affirmation. Of course it was Bitter Springs. Leave it to the NCR to only have one decent refugee camp in the Mojave, and to cram everyone they could within those tiny yurts until they were using one another as mattresses.

“You know about it?” Phelix asked. Arcade nodded slowly.

“Well, uh, y-yeah. I’ve been. It’s not awful, but it’s--”

“Cramped. Underfunded,” Vulpes interrupted, still staring at his uneaten meal. “Military doctors who don’t know how to take care of civilian health problems. Frequent attacks by Great Khan survivors. Leadership that doesn’t know how to handle a crisis. Abandoned by the NCR brass and separated from the nearest help by countless cazador nests. A weak target. Easy pickings.”

“Yeah,” Arcade concluded. “That.”

“Well shit,” Antony snorted. “Jake just told me they didn’t have beds available for everyone. That sounds worse than the slave pens.”

Arcade opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Instead, he was interrupted by the sound of a shriek, and the feeling of somebody urgently tapping him on the back. Flashbacks of the Mormon Fort flashed in his mind, of Julie coming to grab him because something had gone awry in the med tents. This wasn’t just a tap to get attention. This was a tap of urgency.

Nauseated as he was by the conversation and the meal, he instinctively rose to his feet. Behind him stood a slave, the little girl from the brahmin pits he’d help smuggle under the fence. Her brown eyes were wet with tears of panic and she was as pale as a ghost. As if they thought somebody needed to fight a child on his behalf, the men who’d been dining with him stiffly struggled to his defense.

The yowling in the background faded to pained sobbing, hard breathing, and angry prayers. It was a sound Arcade knew well and all the air held in his lungs escaped him in a huff. Apparently, the slaves had been quiet all this time for a completely different reason than he’d thought, and a pang of guilt erupted in his chest. He hadn’t checked on his primary patient all day, now that he thought of it. Wouldn’t his peers in Freeside be proud?

“Is it Irma?” he asked. The little girl nodded furiously. She stumbled over her words, trying to choke out an explanation, but most of her attempts at communication came in the form of flailing her arms in the direction of Irma, who was leaned against the wall, sweaty and staring at Arcade as if he’d personally caused all of this. _That_ was the look of a soon-to-be mother if he’d ever seen one, though it was usually reserved for the father.

“Well, then,” he sighed, trying to keep his voice steady. “We’ll get this taken care of, okay? Why don’t you go with, uh… I don’t know. Go with Antony and see if you can get one of the nice soldiers to bring me a first aid kit, hmm?”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. Antony laughed. It was a bitter, dark laugh like he knew exactly why he was on the receiving end of the evil eye, but nobody felt the need to fill him in on the joke. He hoped it wasn’t anything too awful. In a sad way, he wanted to like Antony.

“She can come with me and I'll do it,” Vulpes volunteered. All eyes snapped to him in shock, though he seemed untroubled by the idea of being saddled with the chore. If anything, there was the vaguest hint of offense in his body language when he realized that they felt he wouldn’t be able to handle a simple task and a child. Arcade waited to see if the girl had any objections but, after throwing another hateful stare at Antony, she quickly scurried to his side. Then, she jetted past him to the window. Vulpes trailed her slowly.

“Please try not to put your foot in your mouth,” Arcade warned. Vulpes didn’t even turn around to acknowledge him and Arcade didn’t have time to worry about it.

Immediately, a switch in Arcade’s head turned from “mild mannered cynic” to “big man in charge.” Whirling around to Antony and Phelix and random slaves whose names he still didn’t remember, he barked out orders faster than he could remember them. Fetch this, fetch that, grab this, hold that. They all seemed so taken aback by the sudden show of backbone that they didn’t give themselves time to question his authority. Legion red and burlap pajamas whipped around him in a frenzy, bringing him offerings of needles and thread, ripped bed sheets, clear liquor for antiseptic, and whatever else they thought could be of use.

As he knelt down beside Irma, she hissed and spat and cursed, calling down divine fury on everyone in the room and the long lost father of her incoming child. Most attempts to ask her about her condition were met with harrowing screams though, if he was extremely lucky, in the lulls between she’d give an actual answer. 

She’d been having contractions for days, she told him, but nothing that seemed too pressing so she hadn't told him. She was also going to swim back across the river and shoot the man who impregnated her in the face. This all seemed so sudden and she was worried that something was wrong, since other slaves she’d seen during childbirth didn’t seem like they hurt this much. Arcade really needed to get the demon spawn out of her or she was going to burn the cabin down with everyone inside. Did she hurt herself or the baby on the way across the river? And would Arcade please get his filthy hands off of her before she clawed his eyes out?

“You can’t,” he matter-of-factly stated, pointing to his glasses. He wasn’t even sure if it was a joke. It felt like one, but he was far too busy sterilizing himself to find his own humor funny. Everything was just closing in, with her worried fellow servants clustering around and the lack of supplies and Irma’s sudden unwillingness to work with him. Whenever he checked her pulse, it was a mile a minute, and he wasn’t sure all of it was just the stress of the baby.

As if sensing the concern, Phelix jumped in. A bit too brutally, he started tearing the spectators away, one by one. They argued, they yelled, but after a brief and firm discussion in broken Latin, everyone seemed to come to an understanding that they would be beaten within an inch of their life if they didn’t obey. Antony, meanwhile, slid in closer, his dog at his side. The mutt, which Arcade now realized was a rather handsome and wolfish girl, sidled up immediately to Irma, wet nose prodding at her cheek and tail wagging a mile a minute.

“Her name is Lupa,” Antony explained. “She’s been in your shoes _a lot_. Trust her. She’s something of a professional mother.”

Irma’s fingers twisted in the thick fur of Lupa’s scruff and the dog, who seemed to be more comforting than anything else in the room, began to howl along with her cries in solidarity. Antony, obviously a man who was unafraid of getting messy, gestured to Arcade to keep doing what he was doing and let him handle the talking. While Arcade eased Irma into a better position and prepped everything to the best of his abilities, Antony matter-of-factly walked her through everything from breathing, to pushing, to not threatening the man who was trying to help her.

“How do you know all of this?” Arcade finally asked, glancing up to see how Vulpes and the girl were getting along with their mission. The window was open and the girl was yelling at the top of her little lungs, whereas Vulpes was busy trying to fiddle with the block on the window track. He wondered why. It didn’t seem relevant.

“Eh, I’m the only one who knew anything about breeding because of the kennels. Then they started getting me for brahmin calves. Then bighorner calves. Then women in the slave pens. Animal husbandry is a slippery slope.”

Time crept on, stretching into eternity, Lupa still howling and the supplies still nowhere to be found. Arcade figured he had time to wait, or at least he told himself that while his heart leaped into his throat and threatened to choke him. Just to be safe, he started mentally going through what he had on hand to see if it would be enough. His tunnel vision was so severe and his mind so preoccupied, that he hardly noticed the small footsteps and the frantic tapping on his back yet again. If he hadn’t looked up at Irma and saw her eyes fixed on something over his shoulder, he probably would have ignored it entirely. 

When he turned, the girl was there. Vulpes was not. She held no medical kit and his heart sank into his stomach. His mind rewound to watching Vulpes fiddling with the block and realization dawned on him. He didn’t have the guts to look up and confirm his theories, but the terrified look on the girl’s face said it all.

“Doctor, Master Vulpes got mad. And he--”

The sound of shattering glass rang through the air. It not only attracted the attention of everyone in the cabin but, judging from the sound of boots floating in on the fresh breeze, everyone outside of the cabin too. Amidst the sound of cocking guns and demands to get down, Vulpes stood in front of a shattered window with a deadpan expression and blood trickling down his arm. 

His eyes locked with Arcade’s. He stoically got on the floor as commanded, less out of obedience and more so the soldiers outside could see the scene for themselves. His expression was impossible to read, but he was kind enough to explain himself.

“They were ignoring her.”

Arcade nodded slowly, as if he understood. That was not at all what he had expected.


	14. Chapter 14

The atmosphere had changed. Words were gentler, spirits were higher, and the food being slipped through the remnants of the window was thankfully (and quite suddenly) edible. Within the cabin, the lines between slave and master were blurring ever-so-slightly, with awkward mingling between the castes and stilted attempts at conversations. Without the cabin, the guards were chattier and the ranger, for all his fire and fury, began to stop by to relay information on the mother and newborn after they’d escorted her to a separate area.

It was all quite bizarre to Vulpes, bordering on uncomfortable. The lack of structure was jarring, not to say anything of the lack of conflict. For the first time in his life he felt like he had nothing to fight. There was no clear enemy, no clear objective, and a blanket of uncertainty was filling in the holes they’d left behind like newfallen snow. Opening his mouth to antagonize anyone would only serve to hurt his chances of survival, even though there had been no word from their new “friends” as to whether or not they would ever be released in the first place, but he was consumed with the urge to hate the NCR for daring to draw breath.

Leaning on his newly bandaged arm, Vulpes stared out the jagged window at the blue skies and tawny sand. The bodies of his deceased fellows had been moved long ago, but the three crosses in the town square were still hoisted high where they once lay. Scant and feathery clouds blew overhead, carried by a breeze that refused to grace the earth, the soldiers within earshot bemoaning the heat and the thickness of their fatigues. He’d been watching them all day, in the middle of Nelson, milling around like a pack of wild dogs.

They typically didn’t cluster like that. They were up to something, but Mars only knew what.

“You, ah, you just gonna stand there all day? You’re starting to look like a cliche in a bad romance. Staring wistfully out into the ether until some strapping young man comes and whisks you away.”

The doctor’s voice was surprisingly upbeat, though Vulpes could tell it was forced. If anyone else in their prison was as miserable as himself, it was Dr. Gannon. Then again, the profligate seemed unhappy with pretty much anything at any given time, never satisfied with the newfound approval he’d earned from his fellow slaves or the begrudging respect Antony and Phelix displayed. Strangely, he also never seemed satisfied with the NCR, though it seemed the soldiers now favored him over everyone else in their prison. They spoke more freely to him, fed him better, always sounded more human when addressing him; why he was underwhelmed by their approval was anyone’s guess.

“They’re up to something.”

Dr. Gannon’s eyebrow arched high as he sidled up to Vulpes, the two of them gazing out the window at the assembly of NCR patrolmen in the center of Nelson. Judging from the look on the doctor’s face, he was not being paranoid in his assumptions. His head tilted like a confused hound, his voice losing its optimism as it fell to a concerned, curious low.

“Yeah, that’s new,” the doctor conceded. “I wonder if somebody important is coming.”

“Oh?” Vulpes asked, curious. Dr. Gannon nodded.

“The NCR is big on decorum when the brass is looking. When the cat’s away, the mice will play. But when the cat announces he’s doing a tour to boost morale, the mice start panicking because they have to figure out how to make themselves look presentable in less than twenty-four hours.”

Vulpes smirked. It was odd, hearing a profligate be critical of the NCR. They normally were so protective of the Bear. Then again, he never made the habit of letting them talk before he slaughtered them.

“Who do you think it will be?” Vulpes inquired, amused. “Colonel Hsu, perhaps?”

“Well, Hsu is the one who is the most personable among the…  _ wait _ .” Dr. Gannon turned to look at him, dumbfounded. “How do you know Colonel Hsu?”

Vulpes offered an uncharacteristic, smug smile.

“Is it not my job to know these things?”

Arcade didn’t immediately respond, but it was obvious from his body language that he was willing to own his own stupidity. There was no offense, no anger. Just a calm acceptance that asking an intelligence agent how he knew the name of a high profile, well-publicized enemy leader wasn’t the smartest of questions.

A welcome lull in the conversation followed, the two standing stone still and gazing out at the patrolmen pooling beneath the long, dark shadow of the crosses. Ranger Milo was nowhere to be seen, but it seemed that every other able-bodied soldier was trickling onto the scene like locusts to a razorgrain field. They were strangely quiet, Vulpes noted, talking far lower than was usual in a way that was obviously purposeful. Occasionally, one would lift their head to stare at the window, quick and secret glances they hoped that their prisoners would not notice.

It was a good twenty or so minutes before Ranger Milo reared his head, stepping out of a cabin at the far end of the town’s center and only visible if Vulpes squinted. His defining features--his beard and borderline psychotic gaze--became clearer as he drew closer to the crowd, his gestures making it obvious what was coming before his underlings had a chance to respond. He fingered a handful out of the mass, flicking his hand in the direction of the cabin before turning away and climbing atop a short, wooden platform at the foot of the crosses. Arms crossed, the profligate’s eyes drifted to the window, to  _ them _ , before he turned back to the crowd and belted out a demand for quiet and attention.

The men who came to collect walked with purpose, but not aggression. A quick look at the doctor revealed he didn’t see it, oblivious to the body language of men at war, and his panic seemed to spread as silently as a plague amongst the crowd sitting behind them. Before their keepers could even dream of opening a door, Phelix and Antony were pushing the doctor out of the way to see what was going on. Soon, the slaves were gathering as well.

Antony seemed curious. Phelix seemed ready to fight his way out of the swarm. The slaves, receiving mixed signals from the four men crowding the window, trembled in a mixture of terror and excitement. By the time one of the profligate soldiers could sidle up to the sill, the cabin buzzed with tense energy. Vulpes leveled his eyes at the keeper in question--a man younger than himself, with sheared hair and a crooked nose--as he came to a halt just shy of the broken glass and crossed his arms neatly over his chest.

His posture didn’t reek of violence. His face didn’t twitch like a liar. His tone didn’t speak of treachery, which was an oddity when dealing with the dissolute. Though Vulpes’ heart ached with a mixture of anxiety and sheer hatred, he took a deep breath and centered himself as best he could. He clenched his jaw to keep himself from scowling and struggled to relax his brow.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Hands out the window. One person at a time.”

“Why?” 

Vulpes was shocked that he was beaten to the punch, the doctor having shoved his way back to the forefront. For all his nervousness and weakness, he certainly had a way of injecting himself into tense moments.

“Ranger Milo wants you escorted to the center of Nelson to stand trial.”

“Trial?” the doctor sputtered, and it was obvious there was fear hiding under the surface level indignance. “Since when does the NCR hold trials? Isn’t it, you know, company standard to just drag the guilty behind a shed and pop one between the eyes?”

The soldier seemed stunned, but not nearly as stunned as when Vulpes found his voice.

“Perhaps it is a trial, perhaps it is an execution. Either way, Dr. Gannon, we are getting out.”

With that, Vulpes held his hands through the gap in the jagged glass, watching with amusement as the rather stunned boy on the other side gawked. The world seemed to pause as the profligate tried to decide whether or not it was a trick, only acting after being coerced into it by a grizzled, heavily scarred woman staring at his side. 

Vulpes expected handcuffs, but apparently they were in short supply. With intricate knots and deft fingers, his wrists were bound with what appeared to be shreds of a destroyed tent. It chaffed horribly, hurting if he dared to twist his arms, but after a quick glimpse of the work done he ultimately decided that, if need be, he could escape it rather easily.

The others followed his lead, Antony and Phelix resigning themselves to whatever the NCR had in store. The slaves only found their courage after the doctor, still masking his anxiety with anger, allowed himself to be tied. One by one, they trundled up to their keepers, tears in their eyes as they accepted their bondage once again. The exception was the child, who seemed to be viewed as too innocent to manhandle.

Like bighorners, they were herded from the cabin. The door creaked open and their dutiful shepherds directed them where they needed to go. Vulpes led the pack, as he often did in his youth, his filthy and ailing lessers tracing his every step, kept in line by the men flanking them with rifles and blades.

Ranger Milo was the very picture of pomp on his little stage. Backlit by the sun and towered over by crosses, he looked every bit like a fallen god of war. He regarded them each as they flooded in, the whites of his eyes visible on his heavily shadowed face though, due to the angle and the shifting of the light, it was difficult to read his expression accurately. Vulpes guessed he probably looked very smug, all things considered.

“Is this all of them?” Milo inquired. The soldier from before, the young one from the window, jogged up from behind and nodded tiredly.

“Yes, sir. This is it.”

Vulpes glanced around to be sure. A part of him had wondered in the past if they were maybe one half of a whole, thinking back to Antony’s observations that an awful lot of slaves and legionaries seemed to be missing. He’d long written off the idea of other survivors, but he’d had an inkling of infantile hope that he was wrong. Obviously not.

“Well, then. Court is in session.”

The ranger paced, his every step creaking on the rickety boards. His hand gave out silent orders that Vulpes watched carefully, earnestly impressed that somebody as base as an NCR soldier could conduct his band of layabouts so effortlessly. It was as if it was choreographed, as if they’d planned this, and he was surprised to see that a couple of vague gestures inspired a small band to begin to separate the prisoners.

The slaves were all isolated, save the doctor. The doctor was, for whatever reason, lumped in with the Legion. The look of betrayal and horror on his face would have been amusing, save for the fact that Vulpes wasn’t given a moment to appreciate it before being yanked violently onto his side of the divide.

“To you,” Milo began, looking down at the shaking slaves, “I gotta say that I’m sorry I’ve dragged my feet so much in these past few weeks. I don’t know how many of you started on this side of the river, I don’t know if  _ any _ of you started on this side of the river. Hell, I don’t know if any of you know how our world works, but in case you don’t, it’s a lot of bullshit. A lot of hard fucking work. But…”

He nodded his head to a small group of men and women waiting at the side of the platform, separate from the rest. Oddly enough, Vulpes hadn’t noticed them earlier, a fact that filled him with shame. They looked cleaner and better trained, he noted, people who weren’t from this camp or any others nearby. Outsiders, from someplace far safer and more well supplied than anything close to the Colorado. 

“... We did find a place that will take refugees. These brave soldiers have been sent from Fort McCarran to make sure that you make it safely to our refugee outpost at Aerotech Office Park, outside of Vegas. You have beds reserved and we’re hoping that, if any stragglers who were with you managed to survive, you’ll be able to reconnect with them there. We’ve borrowed the sawbones from Camp Forlorn Hope to get you treated and assessed, and then we’ll get you on the road and to your new lives as freedmen.”

It was obvious from the dull look on the slaves’ faces that they hadn’t a clue what most of what the ranger had said meant, but the tone was promising enough that their mouths twisted into excited smiles. They collectively murmured, then laughed, then raucously cheered before being quieted down by Milo, who was drunk off of his good deed for the day. The look on his face was nauseating.

“With that out of the way, time for our special case.”

He signaled to the doctor next, who stubbornly refused to move. It took a good, forceful nudge from Phelix for him to take a step forward, and presumably a lot of willpower to not fall back into the group.

“Dr. Arcade Gannon, correct?”

The doctor’s lips became a tight, thin line. He nodded in such a way that Vulpes could predict the tone his voice would take: sarcastic, angry, wishing he was anywhere else.

“Uh. Yeah. It’s not changed since the first day I was here, I’m assuming.”

Thankfully for the doctor, Milo seemed more amused than offended.

“Well, Arcade, we managed to get word of your presence here to Major Kieran in Freeside. She detailed your status to Julie Farkas, who confirmed that your name and description checked out. It would seem that you were reported MIA by a traveling companion and presumed dead.”

The final words seemed to hit Arcade like a bullet, Vulpes glancing over to watch what remained of his color drain out of his face. Every muscle in his body tensed. It seemed as if it were a monumental effort to keep his mouth shut.

“Farkas is glad to hear you’re in one piece,” Milo continued. “And we’re glad to help anyone who may have had a hand in nixing a tyrant. We unfortunately don’t have the manpower to get you all the way to Freeside, but your superiors are sending some guards from one of their outposts to fetch you in Novac. She did want to apologize for any delays. She’s apparently been having a hell of a time getting radio communication going with them.”

With that, his “trial” was over. He was yanked out of the way and led to the back of the crowd by a couple of congratulatory men in khaki who didn’t seem wholly aware that they were unwanted company. Any celebratory mood the doctor may have experienced was killed the moment his “traveling companion” was mentioned.

“As for the rest of you boys, we’re gonna have to have a talk.”

Milo’s voice was suddenly darker, sterner. Vulpes lifted his head to look up at the ranger, while Phelix stubbornly averted his eyes and Antony let out a loud, resigned sigh. All eyes were drawn to them, the soldiers waiting like hungry dogs for the juiciest part of the proceedings to commence. 

“I’ve sent word to McCarran that we’ve come across three live Legion boys,” the ranger drawled, his tone difficult to read. Vulpes couldn’t be sure what exactly he was trying to express, as it was muddled and stilted and odd. There was concern, guilt, satisfaction, all swirled together into a mess of uncertainty.

Vulpes frowned. He wasn’t a fan of uncertainty.

“I know you all are well aware of how, ah…  _ rare _ breathing legionnaires are on our side of the water. You’ve been through the training. You know how it ends. All we ever get out of you is ‘True to Caesar’ gurgled out of a hole in your throat. You’re valuable. Worth your weight in gold or, you know, whatever the fuck you guys use over in that no-man’s land.”

The sound Phelix made was nothing short of bestial. While Vulpes remained quiet, he felt much the same. Only Antony seemed undeterred, his head lazily flopped to the side and his overgrown mohawk falling in his eyes. He slowly blinked, like a gecko, and motioned with his finger for Milo to move on with his little presentation.

“I saw what I saw on the other end of the river, and after some cross-referencing with scouts up and down the banks, it would seem that we have documentation of your escape from as far north as Lake Mead. Camp Golf had been sending radio reports of odd activity outside your fort the entire day we found you washed up, and it ended with Lanius jumping you across the street from me. There’s no doubt you’re defectors, that’s for damn sure.”

“That’s good work,” Vulpes remarked, a hint of admiration in his voice. It was the closest he’d ever come to being impressed by the enemy. He’d never have thought them the type to actually pay attention to anything but themselves and, in his experience, their reconnaissance teams were mediocre at best. Judging from the way Milo reacted, his offhand comment had earned him goodwill.

“We thought so,” Milo laughed. “The problem lies in that, at the end of the day, whether or not you’re running from tyranny, you’re still wearing Legion red and you’re still full of information the brass wants. And that’s to say nothing of what you’ve probably done over the course of your lives. You can tell me war is brutal, or it was conditioning, or whatever else you damn well please, but you and your kind dish out war crimes like cards in Vegas. You have blood on your hands. And probably the rest of you, too.”

The mood amongst the legionaries darkened. Phelix’s anger was replaced with worry, and Vulpes felt an icy, frothing feeling in his stomach that he struggled to ignore. Antony’s head jerked up in alarm, suddenly realizing that things were not panning out as he imagined.

“You’re lucky Colonel Moore is too busy to be dealing with this, or she’d have me string you up right here just to win brownie points with General Oliver. Colonel Hsu is a lot more forgiving, and I’m delivering the verdict straight from his mouth.” Milo crouched down to be as close to eye level as he could. “Two of you will be going to Aerotech with the freedmen. You will be kept under surveillance, essentially on house arrest. The highest ranking of you is going to Fort McCarran for interrogation. If you cooperate, and if you’re honest, we’ll set you up with citizenship to the NCR where you’ll never have to worry about Legion assassins finding you. If you don’t,  _ we’ll _ kill you. Simple.”

The cold feeling in his gut turned to pure ice, spreading through his veins and wrapping around his head. Vulpes inhaled sharply, his expression faltering just enough that it was obvious that Milo could read him. The ranger cocked an eyebrow, examining him closely, waiting for a give or a confession or anything. It was uncomfortable, being on the opposite side of such things, and the cracks in Vulpes’ armor were rapidly spreading.

“Then, I guess I’m going to McCarran.”

Antony’s voice was low, resigned, casual. Milo’s eyes flicked up, confused, and Vulpes followed suit. A lazy smile stretched across Antony’s face as he snorted a laugh.

“You’re the ranking officer?” Milo demanded. Antony, without hesitation, nodded.

“Fifth most powerful man at the fort. I’m Caesar’s  _ Magister Canis _ .”

“And that is…?”

“Master of the Hounds. Below a praetorian, above a centurion, and the head of the canine units of the Legion. I’ve got  _ imperium _ , representative power. Hell, I’ve even spoken for Caesar a few times in his absence. And, just between you me and everyone else in fuckin’ attendance, I had the ear of Vulpes Inculta. I’m gonna guess you know who that is.”

Silence. Vulpes’ stomach twisted and the cracks grew larger still. Milo seemed stunned, as if he’d struck gold, and with a huge smile, he laughed, “I can’t tell if you’re the biggest idiot alive or if you just hate the Legion as much as we do.”

“I thought I already made it perfectly clear that hating the Legion is one thing we can both agree on.”

Almost in solidarity, a nearby soldier clapped Antony on the shoulder. A murmur spread through the crowd, low words of praise and encouragement that only seemed to fuel Antony’s resolve. Vulpes and the houndmaster held one another’s gaze for a good, long moment as a silent thanks filled the gap between them. The relief Vulpes felt was palpable and, judging from the weak smirk Antony flashed, he knew it.

“All I ask,” Antony continued, “is that I get to keep my dog. Her name is Lupa, she’s still in the cabin. She’s very important to me for religious reasons. She’s pretty much the last tie I have to my tribe. I didn’t waste time smuggling her out for no reason, you know?”

“I think that can be arranged,” Milo responded, his voice betraying how satisfied he was with the way the day played out. Antony nodded, accepting his fate with far more grace than Vulpes had ever imagined. And with that, Milo clapped his hands together, a signal that their kangaroo court was adjourned.

“That was easier than I thought it’d be,” Milo remarked, and again he began to issue out orders with nothing more than a few waves of his hands. The slaves went one way, the doctor another, and Antony was unceremoniously separated from his fellows with hardly a good-bye. His escorts were equal parts congratulatory for his straightforwardness and baffled as to how a dog trainer could ever achieve such power. Phelix and Vulpes were left alone, standing in silence before they were remembered and ushered away.

They passed the cabin quietly and without pause, guided to another part of Nelson entirely. The soldiers that walked with them were uncomfortably vocal, asking questions and making wisecracks that made it obvious that they were every bit as dissatisfied with the outcome as Vulpes himself. The only difference is that they craved blood, and he craved true freedom. 

“We’re not really going to let them take us where they want us to go, are we?” Phelix asked quietly in the Legion tongue. 

Vulpes didn’t respond.

“Are we?” he repeated. 

Again, Vulpes answered with silence.

“You’re just going to let them--”

“Remember. Antony.”

Immediately, Phelix’s face fell. The implications were clear, as if they’d been muddied before. With a deep, heaving breath, the scout shook his head, ignoring curious glances from their escorts who hadn’t a clue what they were saying.

“He would have ran and let them kill you,” Phelix promised.

“I highly doubt that, Phelix. Just now, he wouldn’t let them have me at all.”


	15. Chapter 15

The move to Novac wasn’t going to be immediate. Even if there was a grand total of nine people to relocate, it was obvious that the NCR had more pressing matters to attend to rather than getting innocent survivors to safety. Arcade could begrudgingly accept it since he had no other choice, but it didn’t mean he’d be quiet about how dissatisfied he was with the service.

The food was horrible, the staff was rude, and creating a kangaroo court for the sole purpose of boosting the boss’ ego was tasteless at best. It wasn’t even a trial, really, more than a performance piece. On a scale of one to ten, he’d give the whole experience a two at best. Maybe it could have been improved with a jaunty musical number and some fireworks.

All in all, the only thing that had changed in the aftermath was that he wasn’t locked in the same cabin anymore. He stayed in  another  cabin, almost identical to the first, which had been set up with a cot and was littered with discarded cans. He could walk around outside freely so long as he didn’t show any sign of leaving Nelson proper since, even though he was essentially on his own, they didn’t want to miss the grand opportunity to walk him a whole three miles west to Novac and set him free like a rehabilitated animal. Arcade supposed he could understand, since he was charming, charismatic, smelled like a beached whale, and was still covered in blood. Who’d want to miss the opportunity to spend an afternoon with that?

It turns out that the answer was damn near everyone. Maybe it was because there was too much going on, but the only human interaction he really had was with the visiting doctor from Forlorn Hope. Even after Arcade repeated again and again that he was probably more qualified, the ranger didn’t seem too keen on the idea of allowing him to work on anyone. Maybe it was the fact he was a Follower--the NCR didn’t like to share space with them, after all--but he was skewing towards the idea of them not trusting him any more than he had trusted the legionnaires. Sure, they seemed to believe he had a hand in killing Caesar, but they also seemed perplexed that he’d waste his time tending the wounds of his former masters.

Which, honestly? Arcade was, too. Maybe it was the whole “do no harm” thing he swore by when Julie gave him a lab coat and told him he had free reign to cut open as many sick people as he cared to. Maybe it was the fact that all of them, even Vulpes, had started to feel more like people than “the other.”

He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. There was always such a thing as too much empathy.

At least the other doctor, who he learned was named Alex Richards, seemed like reasonable company. He was tired and dirty and perpetually exasperated, but thankful to have somebody willing and able to help. It was a relief since Arcade was starved for conversation with anybody who showed signs of being like-minded about anything, having been trapped in a den of murderers for weeks. And Dr. Richards? Well, he had a lot in common with him. 

An idealistic, burned out, openly gay doctor? Sure, sign him up. As far as he was concerned, they were now best friends.

“You did a hell of a job patching them up in that cabin,” Alex sighed, ushering out the last patient of the day. Arcade lounged in a creaking chair in the corner, cleaning off his glasses with the tail end of his coat. The problem with having bad eyesight and being filthy was that polishing the lenses became a Sisyphean task, a never ending cycle of taking his spectacles off, wiping them down, and putting them back on over and over again for all eternity.

“I did what I could,” Arcade responded, a hint of a smile tugging up at his lips. “We didn’t really have much in there. If they hadn’t left the liquor in the cabinets, I wouldn’t have had anything to work with. I’m surprised the Legion didn’t dump it all out before they got the boot.”

“Yeah. The Legion is… usually more thorough than that.”

There was hesitation in Alex’s words, and Arcade didn’t have to guess why. Settling his glasses back on his nose, he squinted through the lenses and frowned. They were still blurry but it was about as good as it was going to get until he found a reasonably clean cloth.

“You know, if you want to ask me about the Legion, you can. It was a traumatic experience but, hey, you know. My entire life has been a series of increasingly interesting traumatic experiences, only one of which I refuse to talk about. I’m an open book with the first few pages ripped out.”

The normally stone-faced Alex laughed, dipping his hands in a bucket of water that the soldiers at Nelson had graciously provided instead of access to an actual sink. He looked like a kid, splashing around, but the look on his face was inching toward anger. Dirt was still caked under his nails, blood was still staining his fingers. He heaved a sigh and tried again.

“Well, word on the street is you killed Caesar as revenge after you were captured by the Legion. I guess I did want to ask about it because I don’t know how much of that is true. No offense, but you don’t seem like an assassin.”

“Because I’m not,” Arcade responded with a groan. “I’m an  _ accidental _ assassin. Caesar had a mass on his brain and enough common sense to know his headaches and lapses of memory weren’t normal. I was sold to him by a friend of mine who told them I could fix it. I couldn’t, he died, and I nearly got murdered by a silver fox with a mean right hook.”

“Some friend, huh? Who was the charmer?”

Arcade froze. For some stupid, his brain and mouth couldn’t come to a consensus and he wasn’t sure if it was due to trauma or what little remained of his sentiment for the Courier. After a moment of silence, Alex seemed to get the picture.

“One of the missing pages?”

“One of the missing pages,” Arcade confirmed. “What I will say is that it’s somebody who I hope had a good reason to do it, though I doubt it. And even though it goes against my oath, I also hope he falls into a pit of centaurs and, you know, never comes back out.”

“At least you made it out, I guess.”

“Yeah. Feels weird saying it, but thank goodness for Vulpes. It’s probably entirely his doing that we made it. Nobody else knew what they were doing. I just wish more of us hadn't been eaten alive.”

“Vulpes?”

Alex’s voice grew low and curious and, like a slap to the face, it hit Arcade what he had said. He snapped upright, straightening his posture, meeting the doctor’s horrified stare. Both of them sat rigid and silent, an obvious pall cast on their conversation.

Of course Alex would know that name. Camp Forlorn Hope was constantly on the verge of being invaded because of the destruction of Searchlight, and the perpetrator behind that mess was well enough known that Arcade had heard the name before he’d even met the man. His likeness was on posters. His head was wanted on a pike. He’d become the posterboy for Legion cruelty and military gossip mills had probably made him as well known as President Kimball himself.

Arcade sank in his seat. While he wasn’t a fan of unwarranted crass language, the urge to drop an atomic F-bomb was almost overwhelming. So was the urge to run, honestly, but his body had a habit of needing a reboot whenever it tried to execute a fight-or-flight response.

“ _ The _ Vulpes?” 

He still spoke with a drawl, prodding and trying not to be accusatory. Arcade laughed nervously. His tongue was tied and he felt like he’d been backed into a corner by an angry mob. The wheels were turning but his thoughts were increasingly frantic. Why was his tongue sharp only when it would get him into trouble, and  _ never _ when it would save his hide?

“ _The_ Vulpes, yes,” he slowly responded, equally cautious and completely oblivious as to why he chose to be honest. “I know how that sounds, but he, uh, he nearly got himself killed so the rest of us could make it across.”

“Nearly? So he’s… still alive?”

“He… is.”

“Is he here in Nelson right now?”

Arcade hesitated before squeaking out the word, “Yes?”

Immediately, Alex started for the flap of the tent. Equally immediately, Arcade scrambled to his feet. He wasn’t sure why it was that he felt the need to protect a guy who’d made a name for himself by being irrevocably evil, but sometimes brains didn’t make sense. His often made less sense than most. 

He was just as shocked as Alex when he found himself between the doctor and the exit, a dumb and frightened grin spread across his face. Every muscle in his body trembled. Confrontation was not his strong suit when he was actively thinking about said confrontation.

“Please, _ please _ don’t think I’m a Legion sympathizer for saying what I’m about to say. I hate those guys with every fiber of my being and if I could kill Caesar again, I might just take the jaw-shattering punch so I’d have the opportunity to dance at his bedside. I just know that there’s something more to Vulpes than ‘murderous hell spawn.’ Demons don’t sacrifice themselves for indentured dirt farmers and dog trainers.”

“He’s a war criminal,” Alex retorted. Arcade, try as he might, couldn’t think of a way to refute that. Hell, that was how he’d viewed Vulpes right up until this very moment when his psyche, for whatever reason, decided that Vulpes had something worth saving in him. The theater in his mind was suddenly playing every tiny snippet of redeemable footage it had ever stored about the guy, over and over on a loop. Even though the movie was only about thirty seconds long, by god his conscience was giving it a standing ovation.

For every argument against Vulpes he thought of, he found himself overthinking it until it looped back around to forgiveness. While it wasn’t fine he ghoulified an entire town, it also wasn’t right that he never got to have a normal life. Sure, he may have been a spy and assassin, but the NCR had just as many who probably did just as underhanded things. Okay,  _ sure _ he seemed like a sociopath on the surface, but he’d witnessed the guy show actual emotions--fear, concern, admiration--in passing, so he was pretty sure the cold exterior was a defense mechanism. Could you really hold somebody accountable for atrocities they committed under the threat of death?

The more he thought about it, the more he began to relate Vulpes’ plight to people from a certain other organization he knew. People the NCR would have killed if they found. People who did horrible things because some important guy with a big plan told them to do it. The sudden realization made his stomach lurch.

Vulpes Inculta was no different than the Enclave soldiers he’d known his whole life. Hell, some of them were probably a bigger danger to the NCR than a scrappy, deadpan smart-ass. _They_ had the top shelf guns. Vulpes had a hat made out of a coyote.

“He, uh, he is. I don’t even think he’d argue with that. But he’s also the one who powered through and got us over here. Not Antony, not… that other guy. Vulpes is the one who saw Lanius. Vulpes is the one who got Lanius away from the survivors. Vulpes nearly died so that we could make it. That doesn’t strike me as the actions of somebody who is inherently evil.”

“Do you even hear yourself? He’s a murderer.”

“He’s a slave with a uniform!” Arcade barked angrily. “You want to know what life is like over there? People like me who they keep in line with a collar, and people like Vulpes who they keep in line with a cross! They’re kidnapped as children, Alex! They watched their families die and then were used as cannon fodder for a man who’d kill them if they refused an order!”

Surprisingly, Alex hesitated. Maybe it was the fact he’d been yelled at, or maybe it was because he was secretly better at critical thinking than most of the NCR. His shoulders loosened and his face relaxed before twisting into a conflicted expression. He could watch as his inner demons duked it out behind his eyes, trying to wrestle with the fact that he now knew something he wasn’t supposed to know, something he didn’t want to know, and something that wasn’t going to be easy to tackle.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” Arcade sighed, running a hand through his hair and heaving a deep breath. “I just… I believe that, deep down, Vulpes could be conditioned to live like a normal person. He’s incredibly bright and it’s all been misdirected towards some awful, awful things that I can’t imagine a human being doing of their own accord. Somebody who is truly horrible wouldn’t do the things I’ve seen. They wouldn’t square off with a man who they knew would happily kill them just so a handful of people could swim to safety. They wouldn’t be heartbroken that they weren’t given enough time to figure out a safe plan of escape to minimize the losses. They wouldn’t…”

Arcade inhaled deeply.

“They wouldn’t have saved me from being executed for killing Caesar. That man is the only reason I’m alive and I feel like I owe it to him to return the favor.”

“Maybe he had ulterior motives,” Alex argued. “If I’m not mistaken, isn’t he a spy? He could be using you.”

“For what, though? What can I do for him over here that would help him at all? He has no home. His master is dead. There’s nothing more for him to accomplish. His life is over. I just want him to have a chance. And I know that nothing he can do can take back what he’s done during this war, but do you blame a gun when somebody gets shot?”

“Guns don’t think for themselves.”

“Well, honestly? I don’t think the Legion does either.”

The internal struggle ended. Hesitantly, weighed down with doubt and guilt, Alex took a step back. One step became two, and before long he was back to where he started in the tent. Shaken and nauseous, Arcade remained where he was, his pulse beating so furiously that he thought he’d black out. It was as if he’d been possessed by a demon, one he vaguely knew but couldn’t quite recognize. 

“You should talk to Milo about him,” Alex said after a long, weighty pause. His voice was small, but cut through the air like a knife.

“What? Tell him who he is?”

“No. No, don’t do that because they’ll execute him. Just think of an excuse to keep him away from Aerotech. It’s an NCR run facility and the longer he stays in our territory, the more time people will have to figure out who he is. If you really want to give that monster a chance, you’re going to have to find a way to get him into neutral turf. Vegas. Freeside. Somewhere out in the Primm direction. Someplace where we have no jurisdiction.”

Arcade let out all of his breath in one great, relieved gust. He half expected to be kicked out, but Alex said nothing to indicate he wasn’t welcome any longer, instead gesturing to a table of tools that needed to be cleaned. Obediently, Arcade toddled over and set to work. He at least owed Alex that much after his outburst.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing, Arcade. And I want you to think long and hard about if that rat bastard deserves a second chance. I know you Follower types are bleeding hearts who think there’s good in everyone, but you haven’t seen the stuff I’ve seen. Searchlight, Nelson, even Forlorn Hope… goddamn, none of the carnage out this way would have happened if that  _ thing _ had just stayed on his side of the river.”

Without warning, Alex closed the gap between them and clapped Arcade on the shoulder. It was sudden enough that it nearly made him jump out of his skin, but his fellow physician didn’t seem particularly sorry for the fright. Instead, his face was stern, stiff, and as serious as a heart attack.

“Arcade, you seem like a good, intelligent man, and I believe you’ll do the right thing in the end.”

Arcade offered a tight smile, prying Alex’s hand off as politely as he could.

“Yeah. I think I will, too.”


	16. Chapter 16

The escort across Nelson had been rather uneventful, all things considered. The soldiers showed up and plucked him from the cabin where he and Phelix had been contained, calling him an unfamiliar name and claiming he was needed elsewhere. They were as courteous and respectful as profligates were capable of being, taking care while handling him and speaking in level tones implying that there would be no firing squad at the end of the line. While Phelix had expressed his concern on his way out the door, barking warnings until he and his escorts were no longer within earshot, Vulpes himself was reasonably certain that all would go well in the end. After all, the profligates weren’t the type to hide their intentions.

Every last one of them wore their hearts on their sleeves. If something wicked and violent were to come out of their little venture, they’d want him to be well aware of it. They would have to get the last word in before they placed the noose around his neck.

That said, he was rather curious. While the doctor and the freed slaves had been granted the privilege of roaming Nelson freely, the legionaries dropped into their lap weren’t as lucky. He didn’t quite know how Antony was faring, seeing as the houndmaster had been separated from them entirely, but he and Phelix had found themselves back in the very same cabin they’d been trapped in for weeks. The ranger had promised that the freedmen would receive medical care and escorts to their new homes, yet there hadn’t been any indication of Phelix and himself receiving the same treatment. The NCR seemed satisfied that their captives wouldn’t die on them and, seeing as they were essentially going from one loosely organized prison to another, there wasn’t any hurry to move them.

Wrists bound, he walked placidly by the side of his keepers, each of them armed but ill prepared to defend themselves. They attempted awkward small talk despite obviously harboring contempt, to say nothing of how difficult it seemed for them to find common ground. Each seemed surprised and humbled that Vulpes was more than fluent in their conversational methods, a fact that brought Vulpes no shortage of amusement. He almost wanted to tell them how he knew their ways, how he'd studied them since before the war between them and Caesar, just to see the resulting shock and horror.

Once they reached the outskirts of Nelson, they seemed content to let him continue the rest of the walk on his own. Abandoned in the shadow of a ratty medical tent, he trundled ahead on his aching legs while they trained their guns on him from behind. They seemed to be of the belief that he would make a break for it, but the combination of haphazardly treated wounds and over a month of being mostly sedentary had done a number on his body. Running was the last thing on his mind.

The tent was constructed of scraps of old structures and dirt-covered tarp, labeled by a red cross painted on a chunk of plywood. Finding the flap to the entrance was about as difficult as finding water in the desert, Vulpes fumbling around for far longer than was dignified to figure out a way in. The entrance he eventually discovered didn’t appear to be the one that was intended; it was a tear that led directly into a table that acted as a cornerstone for the tent’s structural stability.

Inside was musty and dark, lit by buzzing lamps hooked up to unseen generators and inhabited by two slouching figures on the opposite wall. Trays of instruments and a cardboard box of medicines sat in front of him, as well as a cracked first aid kit filled with makeshift antiseptic and rolls of yellowed gauze.

Cautiously, Vulpes side-stepped around the table until he was on the other side, the wasted time giving him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Once inside the tent proper, he paused and regarded the two others that shared his space. One of them was the doctor, a stark white blur in a dreary backdrop of brown and gray. The other, however, he didn’t recognize: a gaunt, dark-haired, pale-eyed man with bags beneath his eyes and aged blood splattered upon his shirt. One glance at the two revealed that, while the doctor seemed strangely pleased to see him, the other man wished to see him dead.

“Speak of the devil,” the doctor chuckled humorlessly. It was obvious he felt uncomfortable, as did Vulpes at the insinuation that he was being spoken about behind his back. His stomach did flips as his brain tried to puzzle out why, though he was careful to show no weakness. 

“Dr. Gannon,” Vulpes politely greeted. “And… other.”

“Dr. Richards,” the stranger replied darkly. Vulpes nodded. Judging from the tone of his voice, there seemed to have been some manner of disagreement about him being there. Rather than worry himself unduly, he took slow, aching strides to the center of the tent.

“I am to assume I wasn’t dragged out here for the sake of a social call,” Vulpes dryly stated, equal parts a statement of aggravation and a joke that fell flat. The doctor smiled wanly and opened his mouth to speak, while his companion gestured angrily at a chair in front of them. It was a wordless bid to sit though, judging from how furious he seemed, he wasn’t sure if he should take him up on the offer.

“Medical assessment,” Dr. Gannon explained, as Dr. Richards wandered off to pillage through a box of supplies. “They’re going to let you go a little earlier than Phelix and I’m making sure you’re ready for such a long trip. You’re going to be going a bit further than Aerotech.”

Vulpes’ brows knitted together in bewilderment. Curious and alarmed, he watched the doctor’s face for any sign of ill intent or an impending delivery of bad news. There was something there, something obvious, riddled with nerves and regret. Self-loathing and uncertainty shined in his eyes. Something had happened, something had been said.

“Where am I going?” he asked cautiously. Before Dr. Gannon had a chance to respond, Dr. Richards was upon him like a vulture. A box of basic medical supplies slammed onto a wobbling table beside his seat, the contents rattling loudly against one another. Vulpes didn’t have an opportunity to inspect what was inside before Richards was rifling through it himself. Whatever he grabbed was swiftly stuffed into a pocket for later use, but there was no doubt that it was a syringe of some kind. The way he handled it made it seem as though he was keeping it on his person more for self defense than any practical use.

“Freeside,” Dr. Gannon finally answered, pulling a stethoscope from around his neck. “Hey, honest answers only: If I unbind your hands so you can take off that chest plate, are you immediately going to shank us? Or are you going to wait until after I verify you haven’t punctured your lung yet?”

Vulpes offered his wrists to the doctor and smirked.

“Life is boring without mystery. Let’s find out, shall we?”

Though Dr. Richards tensed at these words, Dr. Gannon didn’t seem to have the same fear. Over a month of living with free range legionaries had done away with it, much to Vulpes’ surprise. For all his internal taunting of the doctor, perhaps there was more mettle to him than he originally thought, a feeling that was further proven as Dr. Gannon began to untie his restraints. Once his hands were free, the two stared at each other like outlaws in a standoff. Beside him, Vulpes could hear Dr. Richards inhale deeply and hold his breath.

“Okay. Either strip or stab me,” Dr. Gannon challenged. “I just want to say, though, it would be _incredibly_ stupid to kill me right now.”

“And why is that?” Vulpes inquired, beginning to undo his armor. When he glanced at Dr. Richards, the man was finally breathing again. Beyond that, for all the ire in his eyes, his face was crimson. While it could have been anger, Vulpes worried it may have come from somewhere far more base.

“Because I had a talk with Ranger Milo last night about you. And how bad of a condition you’re in. And my oath as a doctor. And how it’d be inhumane to separate a patient from their primary physician when somebody is in such bad shape. So, yeah, one quick radio chat with Colonel Hsu later and I guess I’m your legal guardian now.”

“My what?” Vulpes asked, throwing his armor to the floor. Out of curiosity, he looked again at Dr. Richards. The man was still as red as a Legion standard.

“Don’t worry about it. All that really matters is that I’m babysitting you from now on. I don’t exactly know how I pulled it off, but I guess with enough medical jargon and a _little_ eloquence, you can work pretty much anyone over. So, I’m not letting you go to Aerotech. You’re going to the Mormon Fort with me.”

Dr. Gannon plugged the stethoscope into his ears and, without warning, pressed the cold metal against his bare chest. Vulpes jumped involuntarily, much to the doctor’s amusement. A small, pleased smile crept across his face. There was something subtly sadistic about his expression, and he wasn’t keen on it.

“Breathe deep,” he commanded. Vulpes obeyed. After a few repetitions, the doctor seemed satisfied and the two could get on with their lives.

“At least you listened to me and didn’t do anything to cause permanent damage to yourself. How’s that broken rib feeling, by the way?”

“It hurts,” Vulpes responded icily. “Let’s go back to your previous statement, though. Why are you responsible for me now? Why bother? What is your game?”

“My game is that I’m a decent human being trying to pay back the abominable sandman who saved my life. And, if I’m going to do that, I have to keep you out of NCR territory. Dr. Richards is pretty sure that if you went to Aerotech, they’d figure out who you were in a heartbeat.”

“Wait. Figure out who I am? He knows who--?”

“Alex Richards, meet Vulpes Inculta. Vulpes Inculta, meet Dr. Richards. He’s trusting you to not do anything stupid, as am I. Especially since, if you do anything stupid, it’s going to come back on me. Now raise your left arm, because I need to check on how your rib is healing.”

Stunned, Vulpes mindlessly complied. Though the sensation of Dr. Gannon’s prodding fingers sent shockwaves of pain through his body, he found himself incapable of reacting to it. Instead, he and Dr. Richards--who was still quite flushed--stared at each other in silence for a good, long while. A wordless and hostile conversation took place with their expressions, each side as angry and threatening as the other. The conflict was only settled when a sharp twinge finally caught Vulpes’ attention. The sound he made was undignified and bestial and earned a small, pleased smile from his foe.

“Yeah, this… this, ah, isn’t healing like it should. I’m not a huge fan of compression wraps for chest injuries because the last thing we need is to put you at risk for pneumonia, but I guess you’re going to be with a doctor constantly and I don’t know what other choice we have.”

Vulpes watched as the doctor began to sort through the box beside him, through jars of antiseptic and ancient adhesive bandages. The wraps he eventually found looked brittle and rough, but seemed to have enough elasticity in them to be useful. At least, Vulpes hoped so. His knowledge of modern medicine was better than most, yet still quite incomplete. He knew the terminology, he remembered some basics, but the majority of his life had been spent walking off broken bones and bullet holes.

“How does he know who I am, Dr. Gannon?” Vulpes asked as Arcade awkwardly began to wrap his chest. With a tap of his fingers, he urged Vulpes to hold onto one end and lean forward enough that he didn’t accidentally tie him to the chair.

“You’re popular,” the doctor said unconvincingly.

“Does anyone else know who I am?”

“Not anyone who matters, no. I don’t think they’d let you just waltz out of here with me to Novac if the big guy thought you were important. From what I understood talking to Milo, Antony’s got them thinking you’re some wussy little flag boy who can’t fire a gun straight.”

“And you expect this other doctor to remain quiet?”

“I trust him to trust my judgment. Now stop wriggling or I’m going to suffocate you. Not on purpose, but intention won’t matter when you’re blacked out.”

The tighter the bandage became, the more Vulpes’ chest ached. He sputtered a cough as he watched the doctor work, his brows furrowing the longer he tended to him. Never before had anyone gone out of their way to help him like this, at least not without an ulterior motive. Even the escape he’d been invited to take part in by Antony seemed to be less a suggestion made in good faith than a hope of making use of his knowledge. The closest he’d ever come to experiencing altruism from another human being was when Caesar gave him the mantle of head of the frumentarii.

Even then, it wasn’t truly an act of mercy. Vulpes’ head ached. Memories best left forgotten threatened to well up, but he silenced them with a quick change of subject.

“Why?”

His voice was sharp, suspicious, and perfectly timed to coincide with the last wrap of the bandage. Arcade peered up from over the top of his glasses as Vulpes glared down at him. The doctor looked exasperated.

“I already told you. I’m a decent person repaying a debt. You saved my life, and I think there’s maybe something worth saving in you, too. Who knows? I may be wrong. You may kill me. You’ve made a habit of killing a lot of people, honestly, and I don’t even know if you really register people as people anymore. The longer I explain this to you, the more I begin to doubt myself, so I’m going to stop talking now and leave it at, ‘I’m a hopeless idealist buried under a thick layer of cynicism, and I could probably sympathize with a feral ghoul if you left me locked in a room with one for long enough.’ Fair?”

Vulpes blinked. He wasn’t sure how much he could trust a profligate, but there was a strange and misguided earnestness in the doctor that he couldn’t deny. And, for all of his hatred for his ilk, he couldn’t help but feel a strange kind of respect for the doctor, though it was far less than his shock at how naive such an educated man could be.

Still, he wasn’t the one to argue with opportunity. Mars had gifted him with a chance at survival, even if it was at the expense of somebody so ignorant. Shooting one last threatening glare at Dr. Richards, Vulpes nodded at Dr. Gannon with a sigh.

“Fair,” he agreed. “Where you lead, I shall follow.”


	17. Chapter 17

Private Charlie Mullins was not the kind of person Arcade associated with the NCR, the military, or any position that would necessitate the use of a weapon. If he had to guess, the kid had probably just barely squeaked over the minimum age requirement to enlist, and he was the very picture of farm boy innocence. Straw colored hair, freckled face, round cheeks, and a gap toothed smile; the only way he’d be more stereotypical was if he had a bit of razorgrain sticking out of the corner of his mouth and a hat made out of straw.

Instead, he was standing in front of him and Vulpes at the edge of Nelson, clad in camo and rocking back and forth on his heels like an excited kid. His body was too lean for his fatigues, which hung off of him like clothes on a line, but what he lacked in professionalism, he made up for with heart. 

He was very friendly, probably overly so. He was also dumber than a sack of hammers. When Milo introduced him to the two ragtag men he’d be escorting to Novac, it was as if they were old friends. Southern-fried hellos and unwanted handshakes were given out like candy, despite the fact Arcade was visibly uncomfortable and Vulpes was  horrified at the prospect of touching another human being.

Charlie disregarded Vulpes’ armor and ridiculous hat, instead starting in on questions that straddled the line of appropriateness, most of them concerning myths and rumors he’d heard about the Legion. While Milo seemed amused by the look of indignation on Vulpes’ face when asked how many people he’d eaten in his life, Arcade desperately tried to steer the subject toward more productive subjects. Like leaving.

Convincing Charlie to shut up and move out was like yanking teeth out of a Deathclaw: painful and edging on impossible. If not for Vulpes giving up and walking off on his own, Arcade was pretty sure the private would have never budged, leading to everyone dying on the outskirts of Nelson. Once his audience was on the move, however, he had no choice but to tag along, lest they miss out on all the crazy stories that he was sure they wanted to hear. Stories like his friend at Forlorn Hope who collected Legion ears as a sort of gruesome visual gag, or how he once broke a leg jumping off of a shed on a dare. No matter the tale, they never failed to be grossly offensive, offensively gross, and generally just the most stereotypical “good old boy” anecdotes known to man.

“Now, you ever met Ranger Stella? She’s stationed near Novac. Girl’s one of the prettiest little ladies I ever did see, and meaner’n a radscorpion. I remember back during Boulder City… Legion boy, were you at Boulder City? Don’t matter. But, back at Boulder City, ‘fore they blew it sky high, she ran outta ammo and just started smashin’ folks to death with a chunk’a concrete. Just, WHAM, you know? I ain’t never saw nothin’ so bad in my days, it was  _ gruesome _ . I’m more of a shootin’ folk, ‘cause you ain’t gotta feel it when you shoot ‘em. Do you shoot? Like, either of you? I’ve been shootin’ since I was little. Grew up in farm country. You ever been to farm country in the NCR?”

“No,” Arcade responded, a bit more brusquely than intended. If Charlie noticed, it didn't dissuade him. In fact, he lurched to a stop in order to launch into a soliloquy that, honestly, Arcade was pretty sure they’d both already heard before.

“Well, then lemme tell you about home. I grew up--”

Vulpes sighed. Obviously, there was no time in his agenda to pencil in a monologue.

It was almost mesmerizing to watch Vulpes’ silent manipulation, and incredibly obvious he’d had experience keeping young, loosely trained military types in order. While Arcade was willing to resign himself to a three mile trip that would last an eternity, Vulpes chose to transform himself into a herding dog, pulling up his coyote hood and setting to work. The moment Charlie ground to a halt, Vulpes was immediately riding his ass like an aggressive driver, closing the gap between them and showing no sign of slowing down. Startled, the private began to inch away, stumble away, and then had no choice but to pick up his pace to stay a few steps ahead of the scary, angry man that was aggressively zigzagging after him.

It was impressive, honestly. Vulpes certainly knew how to work people, though he didn’t seem to be enjoying it. If anything, he was one cigarette away from being an exasperated Freeside mother.

“I apologize for the unfriendly welcome you received, back there at Nelson,” their escort drawled, forgetting his story altogether. He almost seemed to be trying to personally apologize to Vulpes, completely missing why he was angry in the first place. “Y’all was just covered in Legion red and gave the brass a bit of a scare. I ain’t none too sure why you didn’t just cross the lake closer to Bitter Springs--that’s where most of the refugees wind up, I reckon--but I’ll get ya’ll to Novac. That I can promise you.”

Arcade glanced at Vulpes as the man spoke, watching his scowl tighten. No matter how fast they walked or how many times he had to corral his own escort, his eyes hardly ever lifted up from the ground. Arcade supposed it was a blow to the ego for him to accept help from the enemy, let alone a specimen so brazenly stupid. To him, the NCR were a bunch of base brutes who had no lives beyond gunning down his brothers and celebrating with drinks and whores, and Charlie’s stories about collecting body parts and drunkenly hurting himself weren’t helping that at all.

And that wasn’t even touching on the fact that he seemed completely at a loss that a former slave had helped him, and that at least one person in Nelson knew who and what he was. That was a one-two punch straight to the gut, a heaping helping of bad news and inadequacy piled right onto his plate. 

“Oh, geez,” their young guide yelped with a start. “I just realized that we never had a proper introduction. Such a rush to get y'all where you was goin’. Where’s all of our manners?”

He spun on his heel and began to walk backwards, his dust-streaked face lighting up with a flash of bright white, incorrectly spaced teeth. His blue eyes began to sparkle like sunlight on the river. Vulpes still refused to look up.

“I know Ranger Milo already told you who I was, but I’ll start first to get things goin’. My name is Private Charlie Mullins,” he chimed. “Pleasure to meet ya’ll.”

“Dr. Arcade Gannon,” Arcade replied with a forced smile he hoped seemed genuine. “I think Milo might have actually told you that already, but in case you forgot.” 

Silence followed, both glancing at the man trudging alongside them in tattered Legion armor. 

It took a moment for Vulpes to notice, his focus honed in on getting to where he wanted to be and ridding himself of the annoying runt. He frowned at his feet for a few awkward moments before he realized that the sounds around him had tapered off into nothingness, at which point he lifted his head with furrowed brows and glanced between the two of them with the perfect blend of contempt and confusion. His gaze lingered on Arcade the longest as he waited for an explanation. 

Vulpes Inculta--the most highly regarded of Caesar’s frumentarii, renowned for his cleverness, sharp senses, and his uncanny knack of knowing everything about everyone--had no idea that there had even been a conversation happening around him. He’d been too caught up in just keeping the show on the road.

“Your name?” Arcade prompted. Vulpes grimaced.

“Introductions are pretty standard on this side of the river,” he further prodded. “Think of this as a learning experience, getting in with the culture. Just repeat after me: ‘Hi, my name is--’”

“Zandvos,” he responded without a moment’s hesitation. Both Arcade and Mr. Mullins cocked a brow in confusion. Vulpes’ eyes drifted back to the ground. He saids it so quickly, so immediately, and with an accent that Arcade had never heard before. For a brief moment, he wondered if it was pure nonsense he invented to make Charlie shut up.

“Don’t sound like one of them fancy Legion names to me,” Mullins laughed incredulously. 

“It is not what Caesar called me, but it is the name I’m choosing to give you.”

“What did Caesar call you?”

“Uncivilized.”

There was an uncomfortable pause before their guide piped, “Well, that’s not very nice.”

Though the  _ faux pas _ did nothing to slow down Charlie and his chatting, it became harder to pay attention to him as the trip dragged on. What should have been accomplished in an hour or two seemed to stretch out into an eternity, and Arcade felt as though there was a silent, earnest camaraderie springing up between himself and Vulpes the longer they were forced to weather the trip. When the frumentarius would look up, it’d be to look over at Arcade with an expression of annoyance that had wrapped around into hopelessness, and Arcade found himself rolling his eyes at Vulpes behind Charlie’s back whenever he’d start up on something new and exciting. At least once, Vulpes had even laughed, though it was quiet and mean spirited.

With every step, he tried to find something to catch his interest, often in the way of neat rocks and any silhouette on the horizon that would indicate they were getting close to where they needed to be. Sand gave way to cracked pavement, the heat radiating off of the earth making it difficult to see anything aside from the illusion of water. Everything was bland, brown, and repetitive, and appeared to cycle on a loop like the background in a lazy cartoon. Even though he’d been out this way before with the Courier (cursed be thy name), and even though the Joshua trees and cliffs and grains of sand all looked vaguely familiar, he swore he passed by the same ones a dozen times.

Thankfully, before Vulpes could snap and Charlie could retell the story of hazing a new recruit for the hundredth time, Novac fizzled onto the horizon like an oasis. The intimidating figure of Dinky T. Dinosaur rose over the wavering air like a savior out of a holy book, ridiculous face held in a welcoming roar and his omnipresent thermometer proudly (and incorrectly) stating that it was below freezing. His shabby domain sat crumbling beneath him, protected by the rusted chain link, sitting opposite an overpass bridge that was littered with lumps Arcade couldn’t quite make out. 

Vulpes let out an audible sigh of relief and, when Arcade looked to him, he could see that the man was nearing the end of his rope with their escort. While Charlie waxed poetic about the dinosaur and the town and how it was a rotten shame they’d not accepted the NCR into their hearts as their lord and savior, Vulpes pulled his battered hood tighter around his head in an attempt to muffle the sound.

So far, all was going according to plan. Vulpes hadn’t killed Private Mullins, Private Mullins hadn’t somehow led them two clicks south in the wrong direction, and nobody had come dashing out of the cliffs demanding blood and caps. The only thing he reckoned he’d really have to watch out for was peeling skin from the sunburn he could feel creeping across his cheeks, which was odd considering how awful his luck tended to be. Nothing ever went smoothly for him, from trusting a well-known “hero” mailman to escaping captivity. His bad luck ran deeper than most oceans, after all.

Which meant that something was bound to happen. Things never went this smoothly. His life was a comedy of catastrophic errors.

His feet slowed. Something was going to go wrong. He could feel it on the heated breeze like an electric current. His stalling didn’t go unnoticed, Vulpes checking back over his shoulder as he passed him up, waiting to see what exactly the doctor had up his sleeve. Private Charlie Mullins, tour guide extraordinaire, didn’t even realize he was leaving one of his charges in his dust.

There  _ was _ a problem, Arcade realized, as their happy NCR escort started across the cracking bridge, past the barrels of radioactive sludge, and over the crumpled body of a raider decaying in the sun. It should have been a very obvious problem, granted, but in the excitement of being sold into slavery, escaping slavery, and then being captured by the NCR, it had slipped his mind. Right up until he looked right into the mouth of Dinky the Dinosaur and saw a rifle barrel pointed dead at the curious, quiet man in a dog hat who had come to a dead stop somewhere between Arcade and Charlie.

“Oh no.”

Vulpes arched an eyebrow. Their guide continued talking. It had something to do with the republic or bears or whatever, Arcade didn’t know. The gun barrel was moving.

“Oh no, oh no.”

Vulpes was alert now, his eyes narrowing as if he thought Arcade had something to do with whatever was going on. Arcade inhaled sharply, trying to convince himself he was overreacting. Novac had two snipers, after all. There was only a fifty percent chance it would go sideways.

After all, Manny worked the day shift and was a pleasant enough guy. The worst he had to worry about with him was a dose of drama once he reached Novac proper, and that was if Manny even bothered to speak to him at all.

The problem was that the other was… well,  _ not _ exactly the type of person he’d want catching him with a frumentarius. You know, if he had his druthers.

His worst fears were confirmed when a shot cracked through the air, hitting the asphalt at Vulpes’ feet and sending all three men scattering. Arcade’s eyes grew wide in terror as Vulpes’ face lit up with a mixture of adrenaline and hate. He glowered at Arcade, then at their army friend, and opened his mouth to speak.

Another shot.

“Oh no, oh no!” Arcade bellowed. “It’s Boone. It’s Boone, it’s Boone! No, no, no!”

“Who is Boo--?”

Vulpes didn’t finish his sentence. There was a loud pop and Arcade sprinted for the frumentarius, grabbing him around the shoulders in a bear hug that rivaled a deathclaw’s grasp. He let out a squall of alarm as they toppled over one another and unceremoniously rolled down the hill by the overpass to the cracked freeway below. As they tumbled, Arcade couldn’t help but feel that this would have been pretty damn romantic if not for the fact that Vulpes was not his type and one of the Courier’s stupid, short-sighted friends was trying to kill them. 

Sputtering, he dragged both himself and Vulpes to their feet and behind the first solid object that looked big enough and sturdy enough to block them from a bullet. It was the junked husk of a Corvega, one which Arcade hoped didn’t have an intact engine. If it did, one stray shot was going to spell a very bad time. 

“What is going on?” Vulpes demanded. His voice, while choked from the fall, was as level as always. It was as if being shot at was an everyday nuisance, an annoyance he wanted an explanation for but could ultimately live with. Dirty and sore, Arcade straightened his glasses and barked an anxious laugh.

“Boone. Craig Boone. He’s…”

Another shot, a warning, chipped the ground nearby. Arcade winced.

“... He’s got what we in the medical community refer to as, ‘issues.’”

“Issues?”

“Ah, well. PTSD, psychotic hatred for anyone wearing an armored skirt, the intelligence of an angst-ridden teenager. You know. ‘Issues.’” 

Arcade paused, taking a deep breath as he tried to parse out in his head how to get himself out of this situation. First and foremost, he was struck by the sudden realization that Charlie was nowhere to be seen. Panic gripped him like a Freeside panhandler, his head whipping this way and that in hopes he wouldn’t see the bloody body of a NCR private rolling to his feet. Surely, though, Boone would have enough common sense not to shoot an allied soldier.

“Charlie! Charlie, you out there?” Arcade called. Another shot rang out, Vulpes passively looking to the spot beside them where it had hit. He had no idea how a man could be so calm in such a high-stakes situation, but then again, the Legion seemed to be used to running damn near naked into gunfire.

“Charlie! Can you hear--!”

“Yeah, he ain’t shootin’ at me!” a voice called back. It came from above and, when Arcade looked up, he could see Private Mullins gazing down at him from the overpass. Judging from the expression on his face, Arcade could gather that he was alone in taking the situation seriously.

“Charlie, can you please--?”

“I’m just gonna go on to Novac, alright? I’ll see if’n I can get that guy to stop shootin’! You just stay right there and ol’ Charlie’ll take care of it, okay?”

“I don’t think that is going to--!”

Charlie vanished above them. Arcade was certain he was unharmed but he was also pretty sure the guy didn’t have two brain cells to rub together, let alone the persuasive ability to talk goddamned Craig Boone out of taking potshots at a legionnaire. If anything, with their genius minds combined, Charlie would probably end up shooting at them, too.

Arcade heaved anxiously, every muscle in his body screaming with adrenaline. His mind raced, pure screeching white noise that was only interrupted whenever he heard a loud crack sound through the air. It was a stark contrast to Vulpes who, sniffing, took a seat on the asphalt and looked up at Arcade with the blandest, most even expression he’d ever seen. Perhaps, compared to his adventures with Lanius, this was nothing. What he failed to realize was that the only real difference between Boone and Lanius was height and political allegiance.

Sure, Boone wasn’t an inherently evil monster, but if you gave him armor and a sword, he’d probably just march across the river and start mindlessly killing everyone just the same.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Vulpes asked. The sound of his voice summoned Arcade back to Earth, the frumentarius rapping his fingers impatiently on the ground beside him.

“What am I supposed to do?” Arcade snapped.

“Talk to him?” Vulpes voice came out as an incredulous, borderline mocking drawl. “I mean, he is an ally of yours, is he not? You seem to know him. And, I have vague recollections of hearing the name ‘Boone’ in relation to the Lucky 38 while working in Vegas. So, I can imagine you know him through a certain courier?”

Arcade’s heart fell through his stomach. Not only did the mention of  _ him _ bring up all manner of unsavory fuzzies that were more searing than warm, a brand spanking new anxiety flashed into his brain like a bolt of lightning. Arcade had been missing for months, hadn’t he? Which would have given the Courier time to report his death or treachery or whatever else to everyone they mutually knew. Sure, if he ran across any other of their shared acquaintances, he could probably talk them through the horrors he’d faced after being traded to Caesar, but Boone wasn’t too bright. He’d believe whatever the Courier told him.

Meaning, if the Courier had told him that Arcade was a bad guy, then…

“We’re going to die,” Arcade deadpanned. Vulpes crossed his arms.

“I doubt it. The gun sounds like a standard hunting rifle. The magazine can hold a maximum of five bullets, and he’s not likely to have infinite ammunition. Nobody has many .308 rounds anymore. Trust me. I’ve been in charge of Legion supply runs for years.”

“Well, if the Courier told him I was in league with the Legion while I was gone, then it doesn’t matter if he runs out of bullets. We’re going to die.”

“Why would the Courier do that?”

“Because he’s an evil bastard?”

“But it makes absolutely no sense.”

Another shot pierced the air, Arcade flinching and Vulpes continuing to stare at him expectantly. Judging from the angle of his head and the way the corner of his lips threatened to curl, it seemed he had something he wanted to say, but was unsure of how to word it tactfully. Not that the Legion really put much stock in tact. If he’d learned anything during his time with Vulpes and the barnyard gang, they were professionals at being crude, blunt, and to-the-point.

“You are a nervous fellow, aren’t you?” Vulpes finally stated plainly. “An animal driven by fear. For as smart of a man as you are, you seem to revel in inventing danger where there is none. It’s ridiculous.”

“We’re being actively shot at. How is this not dangerous?”

“Because he is an ally. You could speak to him.”

“And say what?”

“A number of things. I highly doubt the Courier would have planted lies about you being a Legion sympathizer in your absence, if you’re still on the verge of wetting yourself over that little fantasy.”

“And what makes you so sure about that?” Arcade snapped. 

“There’s no logic to it. Milo said that the Courier reported your death to your superior, and I’m certain he would have kept his story consistent across the board. Why would he tell them you died in Legion lands and then also tack on your sympathies to the Legion? In case you escaped? Why would he imagine you capable of escape? You are a soft man of letters who would have never made it across the river if not for my involvement. Do you honestly think the Courier is some omnipotent being who correctly predicted our situation?”

“What is your point?”

“My point is that you are scared for nothing. The Courier had no reason to report anything but your death. So, in the event he even said anything at all to this ‘Boone,’ he would just be happy to see you alive. Assuming you’re on good terms, that is.”

He paused, glanced over his shoulder, and furrowed his brows.

“You  _ are _ on good terms, right?”

“With Boone, it’s hard to tell,” Arcade confessed. “I think so.”

“Then. Talk. Him. Down. Or I will, and I doubt that will go in our favor.

The threat lingering in Vulpes’ voice was on par with a scolding nanny, and judging from the fact that his expression was as devoid of substance as ever, it was hard to deny that he actually would have given it a shot. He also would have gotten his head blown clean off of his shoulders which would, admittedly, fix a lot of problems for a lot of people, but after sticking his neck out to give the guy a second chance, Arcade wasn’t sure he could stomach picking his skull up off the pavement. 

Taking a deep, unsteady breath, he nervously tapped his foot and tried to will his heart to stop trying to break through his ribs. If nothing else, an attempt to negotiate would give him an excuse to stand up straight. His knees certainly weren’t happy with having to support his weight, crouching behind a car.

“I can’t think. I-I-I’ve never been good in situations where I’m being shot at. Believe it or not, this  _ really _ doesn’t happen much when you’re studying broc flowers.”

“Your point?” Vulpes mocked.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You didn’t have this problem at Nelson.”

“Yeah, well,  _ Ranger Milo wasn’t actively shooting at me in Nelson. _ ”

“Well, then maybe Charlie will actually be able to negotiate. Shall we wait here for the next week or so, until we die of dehydration? That is about how long it will take him to get through the story about his little friend at Forlorn Hope who collects body parts like some kind of serial killer.”

His irritation was evident and, honestly, it was contagious. Arcade couldn’t help but feel it, too, towards both Vulpes and himself. With Vulpes, it was because he was an ungrateful asshole. In terms of being mad at himself, it was because Vulpes had every right to be angry.

Arcade had spoken with Boone, shared space with Boone, even sat in Dinky’s mouth and shot the shit with Boone. This wasn’t some stranger he was confronting. This was basically an old acquaintance who he was on friendly terms with, a guy who was trigger-happy but capable of reason. The reason was faulty and sometimes he had to be talked in circles, but Arcade had done it a dozen times before, though it was admittedly not on the wrong side of his gun.

Vulpes shifted as though to stand, and Arcade pushed him back down. He took in as much air as his lungs would allow and prepared himself. He was going to have to yell pretty loud if Boone was ever going to hear him.

“Craig!”

His voice echoed through the cliffs, under the overpass, and rattled up to Novac. There was a long, drawn out silence, not a gunshot to be heard. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any indication that Boone had heard him either.

“Craig Boone! Do you hear me?”

A beat of silence, then a familiar but faint voice, “Who are you?”

“Who do you think? Didn’t you see me through the scope? I kind of stand out around here!”

Again, quiet. No gunshots, but no answer either. Honestly, Arcade wasn’t surprised. Boone wasn’t the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer.

“It’s Arcade! Arcade Gannon? You know? From Freeside! Pale? Wears a lab coat? Uses big words and a laser gun?”

“... Arcade?”

Arcade chose to take this as a good sign. At the behest of Vulpes’ expectant gaze, he slowly rose up from behind the car, arms raised. He was earnestly surprised that he didn’t immediately get nailed with a round the moment his smiling face popped out into the open. Angling his head up, he could see a blurry figure leaning over the front of Dinky’s pointy teeth, looking down at the road with a gun held over his shoulder. Even with his glasses, it was difficult to make out the exact features, but the dark lenses of aviator glasses and the red blob that he assumed was a beret indicated he was talking to the right man.

“Holy shit!” Boone’s voice crowed. There was incredulous laughter implied, but his tone was as dour as he remembered. “How the hell are you here?”

“I walked?” Arcade responded awkwardly, slowly edging around the car. “Look, Boone, I need you to put the gun down! I need to get to Novac, preferably without being shot! Think we can work out an arrangement?”

Boone hesitated, then gestured with his gun to the car Arcade had been hiding behind. When Arcade turned, he was surprised to see Vulpes had poked his head out as well, leaning over the boot of the ruined Corvega with his arms crossed. Arcade didn’t have much color left to spare, but it vanished in an instant, pooling out of his body and puddling at his feet.

“Who’s he?” Boone demanded. Arcade stammered. Vulpes smiled.

“H-He’s a… he’s a friend! I was captured by the Legion and he, uh… he got me out! He’s fine, I promise!”

“Tell that idiot his disguise is going to get him killed!”

With that, Boone disappeared into Dinky’s mouth as suddenly as he appeared. Attempts to sigh in relief came out as a wheeze, and when he looked to Vulpes for any hint of approval, he was met with a smug smile. Was he proud? Did he find it funny? The world would never know because, as so many other visible shows of emotion in the frumentarius, it lasted just long enough to burn itself into his mind and then vanished.

“Happy?” Arcade snarled. 

“Quite,” Vulpes responded.

“Then let’s just--”

“Hey!”

Boone’s voice called out again, both of them craning their head up to see him leaning out of the dinosaur once more. Arcade immediately tensed, whereas Vulpes seemed to have an idea of where things were going. With a roll of his eyes and a displeased huff, he decided to dip out of the conversation and turned his attention towards climbing back up to the overpass.

“The hell is this kid you sent up here?” Boone continued. “Charlie? Ring a bell?”

“Wait! Has he been up there the whole time?”

“Yeah! He yours?”

Arcade grimaced.

“I’ll explain when I get up there! Just, I don’t know! Don’t shoot him until we get a chance to talk!”


End file.
